


Times Like These

by Azertyrobaz



Series: Reckoner [2]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, References to Drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:13:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 92,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23317420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azertyrobaz/pseuds/Azertyrobaz
Summary: Modern AU. Follow up to Reckoner. Din and his son are slowly building a life together. Their journey isn't always simple, but they both learn about love, friendship, and what it means to be a parent along the way. Even when Mando's past suddenly catches up with them. More fluff and family feels, but still some angst.
Relationships: Baby Yoda & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV), Cara Dune/Paz Vizsla, Din Djarin & Grogu | Baby Yoda, Din Djarin/Omera, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Omera (Star Wars)
Series: Reckoner [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1676806
Comments: 90
Kudos: 110





	1. Then and now

**Author's Note:**

> This won't make much sense if you haven't read the first part, Reckoner. I didn't think I would be posting more about Din, Santi, Cara, Paz, Omera, Winta, and everybody else, but let's call this my therapy during this crazy time we're living. Hopefully, some of you will find confort in this (I'll try to make it more 'fluffy', although I can't pretend there won't be some angst, too), or at least escape reality for a little while.
> 
> The first chapter starts as a parallel to Chapter 8 from Reckoner - Omera meeting Mando for the first time after he is stabbed.
> 
> As always, feel free to kudos and/or comment. I love you all. :)

** Times Like These **

_I, I'm a one way motorway  
I'm the one that drives away  
Then follows you back home  
I, I'm a street light shining  
I'm a wild light blinding bright  
Burning off alone_

_It's times like these you learn to live again  
It's times like these you give and give again  
It's times like these you learn to love again  
It's times like these time and time again_

_I, I'm a new day rising  
I'm a brand new sky  
To hang the stars upon tonight  
I am a little divided  
Do I stay or run away  
And leave it all behind?_

_It's times like these you learn to live again  
It's times like these you give and give again  
It's times like these you learn to love again  
It's times like these time and time again_

(Foo Fighters, _One by One_ )

There was a car blocking the pathway.

Omera sighed. It wasn’t the first time someone parked there. True, she could have put up a sign, or advertised the presence of their house at the end of the access road better, but she preferred the anonymity the dirt track allowed her and her daughter. Even if it meant having to deal with tourists on their way to the beach who parked where they shouldn’t during the summer months.

She honked. Once, twice. She thought she could see a silhouette inside the vehicle. Someone sleeping? At four in the afternoon? They were on their way to the cinema, and the film was about to start. Winta had been pestering her for days, and she’d finally relented – it was the holidays, after all, and she knew her daughter wasn’t having a great time of it since she had to work.

“I think there’s a baby in the back, mom,” said Winta, who clearly had better eyesight.

Sighing again as well as frowning now, Omera got out, intent on knocking on the car window, after telling her daughter to stay inside.

At first, she thought she’d been correct in her assumption – someone was sleeping in the front and hadn’t heard her. But upon closer inspection, she realized the situation wasn’t as simple as that. The man was slumped half over the steering wheel, half over the car door, clearly in an uncomfortable position. Even from behind the window, she could tell he was drenched in sweat and breathing heavily – there was something wrong with him, he was sick. And yes, there was a young child in the back, and she could hear his loud sobs through the glass, metal and plastic separating them.

The man almost dropped in her arms when she opened the door, thankfully unlocked. And then she saw the blood on the seat and on his clothes. And heard the baby crying out for his dad.

“Winta!” she called out, gesturing for her daughter to join her as she tried to ascertain the man’s injuries. Most of the blood seemed to be coming from his lower back and he winced in pain when she pressed a hand too close to the wound she finally found there. He didn’t wake up, though. It looked like he’d been stabbed, but she had no idea if that was the only place he was hurt – he was heavy and uncooperative. In any case, he needed to be taken to a hospital, now.

“Is that the man they mentioned on the radio, mom? The one who killed someone in Castle Rock?” asked her daughter, once she had reached her, a worried look on her face.

Omera let him go and he fell back against the wheel, his face contorting in pain, but still his eyes remained closed.

“You’re right,” she replied, reassessing the situation.

And yet, she didn’t close the door and reach for her phone to call the police. She didn’t urge her daughter back in their car.

“They didn’t say he’d kidnapped his own son. How can you kidnap your own son?”

The boy was still screaming for his ‘Dada’, little hands trying to reach the hunched, passed out figure. And this, more than anything else eventually propelled her into action. The man – a murderer? – was incredibly pale and didn’t look like much of a threat right now.

“I don’t know darling, but I think we should help him. Help them.”

Her daughter nodded, agreeing with her immediately, and she felt a rush of pride at her reaction.

She asked her to check that the dark haired man was still breathing while she moved their car out of the way and it took some effort to switch him to the passenger seat afterwards. She frowned at the trail of blood this created – he must have been out for a while, and it was a miracle he was still breathing.

They slowly drove back the way they had come, her daughter in the back trying to reassure the little one with quiet words. But the boy couldn’t focus on anything but his father.

“Open the car door next to him and try to take him in your arms, he must be exhausted,” said Omera once she had parked across from their house.

Winta nodded and did as she asked, but no sooner had she pressed the hard button releasing the child’s harness, that he started sobbing even louder, and the man next to her came to in a rush. He groaned in pain and opened his eyes, immediately looking around for his son.

“Stay still, it’s okay!” Omera urged him, just as Winta had finally released the boy and tried to control his tiny flailing limbs.

But the injured man wasn’t listening, and she saw him reach for the door handle to get out of the car. Omera did the same, and she was thankfully quicker, as she just about managed to prevent him from falling head first on the gravel.

“Don’t move, you’ve lost a lot of blood,” she admonished him. He was badly shaking under her hands, his muscles tensed under his drenched shirt. Panting, the man had eyes for one thing only, and didn’t even seem to notice her presence – his boy, in Winta’s arms. He was terrified they were going to take his son away from him, she realized with a pang of guilt. He was passed feeling any pain, and no wonder.

“We’re not going to harm your son, we promise, we just want to help,” she tried again, regretting the way she had handled the situation.

The child had calmed down slightly, more worn out than anything else, she was sure, and Winta kept throwing worried glances in her direction. The look the man and his son were exchanging was also telling – they’d been through a lot together, and she felt she had no choice but to help them, somehow. As if he was slowly coming to the same realization, reassured that the boy was safe for the time being, he spoke for the first time.

“Behind the driver’s seat… There’s a first aid kit… Could you…” he started asking, his voice raw and his breath coming in short gasps.

Omera nodded even though he couldn’t see her, and released his trembling shoulders. Amazingly, he didn’t fall, but it was a close call.

She brought back what he’d asked – it clearly wasn’t a regular kit – and he started rummaging inside immediately. Omera wondered where his remaining strength came from: the blood loss alone should have knocked him out cold. And yet through the pain, he was still talking, haltingly.

“Leave us, we’ll be fine.”

He’d taken out a small syringe – anesthetic, she assumed – and a plastic appliance that must have been a surgical stapler. He wanted to do this on his own? Was he insane?

“You’re not going to do this here, come inside,” she urged him, her hands back on the drenched cotton of his shirt – his skin was burning hot underneath, yet the material was cold. She wondered how long he’d been in the car before they found him.

The man raised his head, as if he was slowly starting to register that he was no longer where he thought he’d parked. His bloodshot eyes, wide and panicky, told her Winta had been right – this was the person of interest the police was looking for, the soldier from Los Angeles who’d kidnapped a toddler. The fact that said toddler was actually his son hadn’t been shared, and made all the difference in the world – to her, at least.

“It’s fine,” Omera told him, “it’s just us, there’s no one around, you’re safe.”

She felt him tense even more under her hands – his fight or flight reaction preventing him from focusing on the fact that he needed medical attention, and quickly.

“Go back inside your house, leave us,” he repeated.

And yet, he seemed to care about them. Seemed to care that he could be putting them in danger. Who was this man, so full of contradictions? A father, yes. Probably a soldier indeed, if his strength, both physical and mental, were any indication. But the fear emanating from him couldn’t only be caused by the authorities after him. It made no sense. Why would he want to protect her and her daughter? And against what? There was something else, there. Something she was missing and had to find out. But first, she had to force him to see reason – she could help. She _wanted_ to help.

“You can’t treat that wound on your own, you need help,” she argued.

He looked at her then, and she tried seeing past the drawn features and pale face. This was just a man, a bit older than her probably, but not by much. With scared brown eyes exactly like his son’s.

“It’s not safe for you to stay with us, your daughter…” he started, and she almost smiled. _Oh, he thought he was smart._ But two could play this game.

“ _Your_ son needs you in one piece, now let us take you inside.”

He lowered his head, and started panting heavily again, reminding her this wasn’t just banter, and he was being silly delaying the inevitable.

“You don’t know who we are,” he mumbled against his chest, barely audible.

“You’re the man they mentioned on the radio – the soldier from Los Angeles. You killed someone in Castle Rock,” he stopped breathing altogether she thought.

“Was he trying to take your son?” Omera pressed.

“He’s not mine,” he replied, hurt somehow by her assumption. But surely…

“…but yes, he was trying to get the kid,” the man interrupted her thoughts.

He was delirious – the boy, still looking at him fixedly from her daughter’s arms – was his. Who cared about labels? It didn’t alter her resolve to help them.

She was now clearly the only thing preventing him from passing out. His straining arms were spent and his pulse going a mile a minute under her fingertips. Omera had no more verbal arguments, but if he lost consciousness, which was probably going to happen sooner rather than later, she’d drag his sorry ass inside. As though she’d spoken out loud, he started nodding his head, the movement costing him. She sighed – finally.

They made their way inside slowly. The man passing out on the porch for a few seconds but stubbornly refusing to stay down. He was heavy, yes, but she could only feel bones, too warm flesh and stiff muscles under his shirt.

Omera guided them to the kitchen, and Winta deposited the first aid kit she had asked her to bring inside on the table. Not wanting either of the children to witness – or hear – anything that was to follow, she pressed her daughter to take the boy upstairs and see if he would sleep for a bit in her bed. He probably wouldn’t, as he seemed far too worried about his father still, but it would give her time. It wasn’t going to be pretty, and she hoped the stranger would remain conscious throughout the procedure, as she hadn’t performed first aid in a long time.

And he did, up until he blacked out – to his credit, he’d waited until the wound was closed. He’d swallowed morphine and antibiotics, and promptly keeled over, thankfully slowly enough for her to prevent his head from banging on the tile floor. A knife wound, she could take care of. A concussion, not so much. Now that he was lying down and breathing somehow normally – she’d checked, several times – Omera allowed herself a break as well. _What now?_

Using the stapler had felt a bit barbaric, but she could kind of see the appeal in a rushed setting, as he had explained it was meant for a battlefield. Still, the man hadn’t complained once and trusted her steady hands. Omera sat down next to him – her hands were definitely shaking now. _What the hell had she done?_

She took off the surgical gloves that the kit had also provided, and checked his pulse one more time. Fast, but steady.

“Mommy?”

Winta was standing at the kitchen door, looking concerned.

“Is the boy sleeping?” she asked her daughter, in a voice she hoped reassuring.

“Yes, I don’t think he wanted to, but he was very tired. I read him a story. The first chapter of _Stuart Little_ , he seemed to like it.”

“You did very well,” Omera praised her, “thank you.”

Neither of them moved – the mother still sitting on the floor next to the passed out man, and the young girl at the door, too scared to come closer.

“It’s okay darling, he’s gonna be fine, but he has to rest, now. He was injured pretty badly so he has to sleep.”

“Are you going to call the police?”

“I don’t know,” she replied honestly, “I don’t think so.”

“But they’re looking for him,” she insisted.

“I know, but that doesn’t mean we have to tell them he’s here. We don’t know the whole story.”

“But…”

“I think we should let him rest, first. Let _them_ rest. Then we can reconsider. He’s not going to attack us. And I know exactly where to hit him if he tries something,” she added for levity, but still meaning it.

This seemed to do the trick for now and earned her a smile – her daughter was still so young, and Omera knew her world was still safely colored in black or white. She wanted to preserve that illusion for as long as she could, but this was one situation where she couldn’t be certain of making the right decision, and that scared her. How could she explain to her daughter that it was her instinct guiding her actions? That it _felt_ right to help the stranger and his boy? That she understood his plight more than she let on? She wouldn’t understand. And thankfully didn’t remember that there had been a time when she had also been scared someone was going to take her away from her. Omera had to take things one at a time and wait for the situation to evolve, carefully.

So that’s what she did. First, they had to move the man somewhere more comfortable – she didn’t think he would wake anytime soon, but there was no point leaving him on the kitchen floor. Taking him upstairs was out of the question, so she had Winta get a camping mat from the garage and they managed to carefully roll him on one and drag him to the living room. She put a pillow under his head, and draped a sheet and a blanket over him – he didn’t move an inch during the ordeal.

Next, she drove his car to the garage – best not to leave it in the open, even if no one came around – then went back to get her car and parked it outside. She found stuff they would need for the baby in his car, and clothes for him. Omera tried not to look at all the blood on the front seats, and methodically registered the location of the two guns she found, and left them where they were.

The boy didn’t stay asleep for long, and mother and daughter heard him fussing in Winta’s bed before he started crying out for real. Omera took him in her arms for the first time and looked him over more closely – he was about a year and half she guessed, and seemed to be in good health, with round baby cheeks and focused eyes. He frowned his little eyebrows in annoyance at being held by one more stranger, and she couldn’t help but smile.

“A stubborn one too, I can tell. Why don’t we change you and give you something to eat, hmm?”

The mention of food seemed to have worked in her favor, and he displayed his pointy little teeth in a smile. Winta took careful note of how she was changing his diaper, the boy quite placid now, but he showed more interest when they fed him a sliced apple and cookies in the kitchen. Her daughter seemed content doing it on her own after a while, and Omera went back to check on the stranger – he still hadn’t moved. The morphine would give him several hours of respite, she knew, but the pain would come back at one point, probably worse. Thankfully, there were still several capsules in his kit. She’d just have to force him to take some more.

This proved trickier than she had anticipated, as she also hadn’t foreseen delayed onset shock. The little boy had been no trouble at all: he was adorable, and Winta had immediately taken it upon herself to keep him happy, fed and loved. Omera found her daughter’s old cot in the attic, and he’d fallen asleep quickly after dinner and a couple of stories, probably exhausted silly after the day he’d had. His father, on the other hand, had decided that he’d had enough rest come two in the morning, and Omera didn’t regret her decision to stay on the couch. She’d just started closing her eyes, her book falling from her hands, when he spoke.

“We need to go, we need to leave, now…” she heard, the scratchy voice out of breath.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” shushed Omera, coming to sit next to his prostrate form.

“They’re all after us, they’re coming!” louder, now.

“No one is coming, you’re safe, your boy is safe,” she pressed, her fingers coming to rest on his brow. _Christ_ , he was burning up!

He sat up quickly and opened his eyes, looking around wildly. Omera feared he was going to get up and she wouldn’t have the strength to hold him back, but his face contorted in pain, and he reached for his back with trembling hands – he’d forgotten about his wound. Hoping the staples were still in place, she pressed his shoulders gently to force him to lie down again on his good side.

“ _El armario_ … I should have stayed inside…”

She stopped trying to make sense of his words and did her best to soothe him instead. He was shaking, his legs against his chest and his face clammy and pale. Omera needed to get his temperature down, quickly, but she was afraid he would hurt himself more if she left his side. So for now, she kept one hand against his tensed arm, and one in his sweaty hair, repeating the mindless words and motions she had already used on his child a few hours before to get him to sleep. He eventually stopped mumbling about people after him and maps he needed to consult in his mix of English and Spanish she barely understood, but he was still trembling and visibly in pain.

“Let me get you something,” she said, but he reached out for the hand that had been stroking his arm as she was about to stand up. “I’ll be right back, I promise,” she told him and he nodded, his eyes forcefully closed. Omera wondered if he was at all aware of her and his surroundings, or if he was in the grips of whatever nightmare the fever had brought up.

Slowly, carefully, she managed to make him sit up and drink some water with the pills she gave him. His eyes were opened, but they kept looking anywhere but at her. Fearful, guarded, his teeth chattering.

“You need to take this off,” she told him, her hands once more against his shoulders. “You’re soaked through.” He nodded again and let her remove his T-shirt gently. She faltered at the skin revealed with an audible gasp. No wonder he’d barely made a sound when she treated his wound – he was covered in scars and contusions, old and new. Pain must be his constant companion. _Who was this broken man?_

“You need to take the boy. To protect him,” he interrupted her, completely oblivious to the fact that she had been staring at his chest. “Please!” he beseeched her, his hands gripping hers with surprising strength, and his eyes now looking straight at her.

“Your son is safe, I promise,” Omera replied, gripping his hands back with equal force. “Nothing is going to happen to him.”

But the man was shaking his head, his brown orbs full of fear.

“He’s not, and I can’t protect him, I can’t…”

“Yes you can, you’re doing it, you’re here! No one is going to find you, trust me,” she tried again, hoping this fever induced anguish would soon let him rest and heal. For his sake, she also prayed he would remember nothing of this the next day.

“They’ll catch me, and it’s okay, I don’t care, but they can’t catch him…”

“They won’t catch you…”

“Promise me…” he interrupted her, both her hands clasped together in his now, “Promise me you’ll protect him. You’ll take care of him…”

“You don’t need…”

“Promise me!” he cried out, tears in his eyes now, the hands surrounding hers trembling.

“I promise,” she vowed, hoping this would break the spell, but still meaning it. “I promise,” she repeated, as he finally took in a deep breath and rested his forehead against her shoulder. “I promise,” Omera told him a third time, her arms raising up to hold him close, one hand flat against the still burning skin of his back, the other in his hair.

A few minutes later, he was asleep. Omera went back to the sofa, wiped the tears she hadn’t noticed rolling down her cheeks, then closed her eyes.

She woke up as the sun started peeking through the window the next morning. Turning quickly, she checked behind the sofa: the man was still there, his brows furrowed but his eyes closed – he’d be waking up soon. Part of her had almost expected him to have left during the night. Which was stupid, she knew, as he wouldn’t be mobile for a while with the amount of blood he’d lost. Another part of her wondered if she had dreamt all of this up. But the labored breathing behind her told her otherwise.

Omera stood up, slowly, but that was enough to startle him awake completely. His eyes looked clearer in the morning light, and his skin and hair dry.

“Your fever’s gone,” she said quietly, hoping this would announce her presence without alarming him too much. But no such luck, his face morphed into a mask of pain.

“Do you need more morphine?” she asked, sitting close – but not too close – to his sleeping pad. “I got you to take one during the night but it’s been hours, now.”

His reaction told her he had no recollection of such an event – as she had anticipated. He slowly pushed himself up against the back of the sofa, and she stopped herself from trying to help him, although it looked like a struggle, his eyes shut in concentration and his head down.

“You passed out after you took morphine the first time. So we couldn’t move you to a bed upstairs. I hope you weren’t too uncomfortable,” Omera told him, wondering what he remembered of the previous day.

“It was fine, thank you,” the stranger replied, his voice scratchy with disuse. “No more morphine,” he added.

With his head still down, he didn’t see her slight smile – stubborn one indeed. The morning light also allowed her to make one more observation. She’d been focusing on the scars on his chest the previous night, but now she could allow herself a more frivolous thought. The man was _cut_. On the lean side, yes, but there was no denying he was a pleasing sight. This time, he noticed her stare – although she had tried to limit it to a cursory one, but then maybe her eyes had lingered a bit too long – and he quickly grabbed for the sheet that had slipped from his body when he rose up. Omera tried hiding her grin once more – he _definitely_ didn’t remember the previous night.

“You were burning with fever at one point last night, and your shirt was drenched already. You kept on mumbling things but you didn’t fight me. You seem a lot better, now,” she tried to explain.

“What was I saying?” he quickly interrupted her.

“I couldn’t quite make everything out, you were half delirious. It was a mix of Spanish and English, I think. Something about a cupboard, maybe. And you were asking about your child.”

He startled once more – so maybe he _did_ remember some of what he had said.

“Where is he?” he inquired, the words rushing out now, “Is he okay? Did he eat? Did you change him? Did…”

“He’s fine,” Omera said, calmly “he’s still sleeping upstairs with my daughter, Winta. He’s safe.”

“We’ll be gone as soon as he wakes up, I promise.”

She managed not to smile this time – he had to realize this was more than likely impossible on his own.

“Thank you,” the man added after a few seconds of silence, “for everything. I’m really grateful for your help, it’s…well, it was very nice of you.”

She didn’t think it was just his state that made the words so difficult for him to say – he didn’t seem to be much of a talker, and his shyness surprised her. This wasn’t what she had expected from a man running away from the law with a baby in tow.

“It’s Omera, by the way,” she told him, remembering that she had never told him her name. And clearly, he would have never dared asking her if he could help it. “And you’re Mando?” she made sure, and he nodded, then frowned.

“How do you…”

“They said your name on the radio.”

She hadn’t wanted to assume anything until then, but it was nice to be able to call him by something else than ‘stranger’.

This propelled him into action, and he stood up – slowly, cautiously, his limbs shaking with the effort. She let him walk the small distance to the kitchen, staying close in case he faltered, but he didn’t. Still, he was utterly spent by the time he sat at the table, and she hoped it meant he realized he wouldn’t be going anywhere today. He took pain meds – not morphine, though – and she managed to get him to drink a bit more water. He was going to need plenty of liquid.

He inquired about her background – he’d guessed she’d had medical training, but she managed to evade his questions, her turn feeling uncomfortable. He apologized for keeping her up the previous night, and that made her chuckle – what a weird thing to say. She’d only done what any decent human being would do. When she told him about the guns she had found in his car when looking for the child’s things, he didn’t react – weapons were not an issue, strangely. She suggested some food, as she imagined he hadn’t eaten anything in a while, but there again he refused more kindness.

Omera thought he looked quite despondent, his eyes refusing to stay on hers for too long, with the sheet he stubbornly hadn’t parted with still draped across his shoulders. _What a strange, strange man._

He did accept her offer to use the bathroom though, and she brought him his bag. He wasn’t just shy or uncomfortable, she realized – he was wary. Of any physical contact or outside help. A direct opposite of the man who’d sought out her touch the previous night when he was out of his mind with fever. Recognizing that he needed her to keep her distances now, she left him on his own.

Back in the kitchen to set the table for breakfast – the children would probably wake soon, Winta at least, who still woke up early even during the holidays – she heard something ring. It came from the hallway, from the bag where she had gathered stuff for the baby, then remembered she had picked up a clunky mobile phone from the glove compartment. The thing kept on ringing, and she eventually decided to take the call, ready to pretend it had been a wrong number if she didn’t like what she heard on the other end.

“Hello?”

“Who… Who’s this? Is Mando around?”

The voice was deep and serious and brokered no arguments or lies.

“Mando was injured yesterday. He’s in the next room, but I can get him for you. Who are you?”

“My name is Paz Vizla, I’m a US Air Force Colonel, Mando is my friend. Is he alright? I tried calling several times last night…”

The man sounded apprehensive, but genuine, as far as she could tell.

“I found him passed out in his car yesterday afternoon. He was stabbed in the lower back and he lost a lot of blood. He’s still very weak, but he is better today.”

“What about the boy?”

“He is fine, unharmed, he’s still asleep,” she confirmed.

“And Mando just let you…help him?” the Colonel asked in disbelief. This told her he wasn’t lying when he said he knew the other man.

“It wasn’t easy,” Omera agreed. “Your friend is stubborn.”

“Tell me about it…” the man still sighed in relief.

“I’ll knock on the door and give him the phone...”

“Wait,” he interrupted her, “before you do that, can you answer a few more questions? Please?”

This wasn’t a man who often said ‘please’, she could tell.

“Sure.”

“Is he… Where are you? Located, I mean. You don’t have to tell me precisely, but just to give me an idea.”

“Not too far from a town called Raymond.”

Silence on the other end for a few seconds, she guessed he was checking where it was.

“ _Jesus_ , he’s not there yet…”

“I understand from what I heard on the radio that he was injured in Castle Rock, that was a long drive in the state he was in.”

“Yes, but the moron drove in the wrong direction… Although I imagine he did it on purpose…” the man thought out loud, Omera not following.

“I’m not sure I…”

“Listen, it’s important. I know I can’t persuade you to do anything, but I will have to be honest with you. My friend is in trouble. And I’m really grateful you helped him and didn’t call the police. I’m just asking you to keep him safe for a little while longer, just until I get here, it’s…”

“It’s about the child, isn’t it?” she interrupted him, wanting to understand.

“Yes, some very nasty people are after them and he was trying to reach someone up north. But that won’t be possible now with the roadblocks, I’ll have to think of something else.”

“What kind of people?” Omera insisted.

“He’s…not going to like me telling you this.”

“Look, sir… _Colonel_. I’ve just welcomed a stranger in my home. I need to know what kind of danger me and my ten-year-old daughter could be in. I’m not going to call the police but I need more than what you are telling me.”

Her heart was beating fast, but her voice hadn’t wavered. She heard the man hesitate, starting to say something then stopping himself.

“I _want_ to help him and his son and he _seems_ to be a good person, but I only have your word for it. That’s not much to go on or to earn my trust,” she added.

She had sat down at the kitchen table – the shower was still running and it would be some minutes until Mando reappeared. They had time. But the Colonel better make it worth her while.

“What’s your name?”

“Omera,” she replied after a second of hesitation – she hadn’t expected him to ask again or start there.

“Omera. The man you helped means more to me than you can imagine. He’s like my little brother and I would do anything to protect him. And not just because we served together. He’s my _friend_. And I thought I’d lost him forever until he showed up a few days ago with the boy. I didn’t want to believe his story at first because it sounded too crazy to be true, but given what’s just happened to him, it’s clear he wasn’t lying. You’re probably going to react the same way I did but please, just listen for now.”

She stayed silent, letting him speak.

“He was raised in a gang in Los Angeles. Drug dealers, pretty fucking bad ones. His parents were murdered when he was very young and he didn’t know any better. They brainwashed him into working for them, tapping into his guilt and distorted gratitude for having been taken in, I’m sure. I met him when he was nineteen years old, shortly after he joined the army. Just a kid. He’s the most selfless person I know. Stupidly so, most of the time. He became the best pilot I’ve ever come across. And my friend. He is a _good_ man. But he got tangled up again in that gang of his a few years ago and had to leave the Air Force. I don’t want to imagine what they had him do lately, but it’s taken a physical toll on him, I saw that for myself.”

Omera remembered his scars vividly – she had seen it for herself, too.

“Whatever he had been doing at the time, he found this kid about a week ago. But the gang wants him for something, we don’t know what. And Mando’s been running away ever since, trying to protect him.”

Omera didn’t know where to start. What to say. Could she believe such a tale? Yes, she certainly could, if she had enough time to process everything – which she didn’t. It explained a lot of the man’s reactions, to be sure. His distance. His fear. His pain. And why he had so fiercely decided to cling to the boy, although the Colonel hadn’t mentioned it. The same reason why such a man would also decide to join the military. That was easy to understand.

“What was your plan?” she eventually asked, as they were pressed for time.

“He was supposed to reach my sister’s place near the Canadian border. But he won’t make it, now. It was to give me enough time to find someone who could help him. Them. Legally, I mean.”

“Did you find this person?”

“Yes, I think so, but she won’t be able to come to him for a couple of days. So I’ll fly here instead. And we’ll…find somewhere safe where we can wait.”

“They can stay here,” she heard herself say before she had time to think too much about her words, “you don’t have to find somewhere else. They’ll be safe, it’s secluded.”

“Are you sure? I mean…”

Mando was standing at the kitchen door. It wasn’t hard to read the fear and betrayal in his eyes.

“He’s here,” she interrupted the Colonel quickly, “he can talk to you.”

“Yes, please, I’ll try to convince him. Thank you, Omera.”

She nodded, even though he couldn’t see her, and walked towards Mando’s still form slowly.

“It rang while you were in the shower. A Colonel Vizla. Apparently he tried calling several times last night, but I never heard it, I’m sorry.”

Too stunned to reply, Mando simply took the phone from her.

“Paz?” she heard him say in a shaky voice. And he quickly sighed in relief, his tensed shoulders dropping.

She went back to setting the table, trying to give him space, but he didn’t move, and she could still hear his side of the conversation. His insistence that his injury wasn’t that serious – it was. Or that she wouldn’t let them stay here – she would. That gave her pause. She was certain of it, now. Even without the Colonel calling, she’d have probably come to the same conclusion. Omera wondered how irresponsible or gullible that made her, especially as a mother, but before she could think too much about it, she heard Winta coming downstairs with the crying toddler.

The following scene only strengthened her resolve – as soon as the baby was in the man’s arms, the man the child himself called his father, he stopped crying almost immediately. She observed them some more during breakfast. They were comfortable with each other, and strangely alike. Another surprise came when she saw him interact with her daughter – he’d even started the conversation himself, which she had never expected he would. Unsurprisingly, he was soon overwhelmed with Winta’s unrelenting and unrelated questions, and she eventually put a stop to them, but he'd held his own. He was more relaxed with children, less guarded – he certainly was a puzzle, she thought.

More surprises came in the quiet afternoon they spent in the living room. Omera hadn’t been shocked that her daughter seemed so enamored with the baby – she loved children of all ages and knew she’d always wanted siblings, but she was more bemused by the man’s attitude. He must have been in pain and worried out of his mind, and yet he just watched the children play, accepting the hugs the little boy requested and letting him slobber all over his T-shirt without a care. He even assisted Winta with her homework, and she didn’t miss the worried look he directed at her after having resolved a tedious calculus problem. Why would she disapprove of him helping out? He barely noticed when she handed him the baby’s pacifier at one point, as he was too focused on her daughter’s homework. Had she been looking in the wrong place all this time? Were _gang members_ actually the most perfect father material? Omera shook her head, half concerned, half amused by her notion, and knew without a doubt she could leave her daughter alone with him as she was making dinner.

She’d meant to check on them one last time before going to bed, as the little boy had unsurprisingly refused to sleep anywhere but near his father, but she stopped at the bottom of the stairs when she heard him speak. He was talking to the boy in Spanish – she couldn’t understand his words, but his tone was warm and reassuring. The kid was babbling happily, then giggling.

“It’s nice to know that at least _you_ don’t mind that I’m ugly,” he told the boy with a chuckle of his own. Still, despite the light tone, she didn’t think she should let him say something like that.

“You’re not ugly.”

She could tell she’d startled him – again. She sat next to him on the sofa, not too close, yet he tensed up in the darkness.

“You shouldn’t be so self-conscious about your scars,” she added, wondering where the man who’d initiated physical contact and let himself be hugged the previous night had gone. She understood he’d behaved subconsciously then, as the fever had altered his perception of the outside world, but she couldn’t help but think that _this_ had been the real him. The same person who spoke silly Spanish endearments to his kid and answered all her daughter’s questions calmly.

“Ugliness isn’t just something visible on the outside,” he replied after a few tensed seconds of silence.

Given what his friend had told her on the phone, she could guess what he was referring to. And she felt bad for hiding that she knew about his past, so she came clean. Omera also thought she owed him a bit more regarding her own experience with Winta following her husband’s death. And what it had felt like to think the authorities would separate them. The same fear, and the same anger she had seen in his eyes outside.

He didn’t comment, and that was okay. His silent acceptance was enough – and appreciated.

“Do kids so young have nightmares, do you know?” he asked out of the blue. She turned towards him, but couldn’t see his face.

“Because… I mean, I don’t know much about children, but this boy… He just seems so calm and contended most of the time, but at night he wakes up terrified. I don’t know what he’s been through, but it probably wasn’t very pleasant, at least just before I found him. And yet looking at him now…”

“He’s happy,” she replied simply.

“Yeah. I think so, at least.”

“I think so, too.”

The toddler was slowly starting to fall asleep, his quiet coos less and less frequent – she missed the time when Winta was that age. When all was just possibilities and simple achievements and unconditional acceptance.

“Winta was older when she started having nightmares,” she confirmed. “But I guess it’s possible. It’s probably his way of processing the trauma.”

The man hugged the boy closer at her words – she felt bad for their harshness, but he’d asked for her opinion after all. And it didn’t mean she thought he was messing up. Quite the opposite, actually.

“You’re doing your best, trust me.”

Omera was distracted the next day, and Pershing showing up on her doorstep as she was about to drive to work hadn’t helped. It wasn’t the fact that she was leaving her daughter unsupervised with Mando for several hours that afternoon. She didn’t think so, at least – which in itself, was a worry. No, it was the fact that it had all seemed so _normal_ that morning. As if harboring fugitives from the law was something she did often. And proceeded to have night-time heart-to-hearts with them. Telling them things she hadn’t shared with anyone in so long. If ever.

_Maybe she needed to go out more._

The evening was spent in similar fashion, up until he received the call he’d been waiting for. He seemed even more anxious afterwards, but Omera didn’t risk asking him what he’d learned. He was relieved to hear that she’d be able to watch over his boy the next morning, though – trust run both ways, after all.

When she pointed out that he was probably unconsciously causing the little one’s difficulties to fall asleep, she didn’t expect their conversation to turn into something as silly as him forgetting to brush his teeth.

“It’s okay, it’s just baby teeth after all,” she reminded him, still grinning then. But Mando wasn’t smiling, and it took her a few more seconds to realize how much it mattered to him.

“That’s fine, you didn’t know, you can start doing it now,” she tried to reason him.

But he wasn’t listening to her, she could tell. He’d completely shut down, his eyes unfocussed and his mind boiling with self-recrimination. The whole world had somehow decided to rest on his shoulders, and he seemed fine with it. Worse – he’d been _expecting_ it.

“Hey, can you hear me?” Omera interrupted his thoughts, placing her hands on his shoulders, hoping her touch would trigger a reaction. And it certainly did. When her thumbs started brushing against his neck – _nothing_ compared to what he had allowed when he was sick with fever – he raised his head and stood taller, probably hoping the movement would dislodge her hands. But she wouldn’t he dissuaded so easily.

“You’re doing fine, it’s only been a week,” she added, hoping her words would get though his thick skull. “It’s admirable, really, for you to take it so seriously.”

He snorted in mirthless laughter, his head dropping to his chest again. Did he think she was lying? Making fun of him? Her hands slid to his face and he stood very still. She had his undivided attention, now.

“Fathers who’ve had _months_ just to get used to the _idea_ of a child have shown far less passion and willingness to learn than you.”

Holding his breath, he looked into her eyes. Omera hoped he saw she’d meant every word. This was too important, especially since she knew he would be leaving soon and she’d probably never see him again.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” she added quietly, her thumbs stroking his cheeks once before removing her hands.

She wished him goodnight, and he remained where she’d left him.

The next day turned out to be one of the worst of her life – and she’d known a few. One second, her daughter was asking her if she could play with the boy outside, and the next she was crying out for her, in a desperate voice she hadn’t used in years.

She’d failed. She hadn’t been able to protect his child. He’d trusted her with his safety and she had betrayed him.

It was only out of reflex that she prevented Winta from running after the two men she could just see disappearing in the surrounding woods. Omera was numb and unresponsive when Mando arrived. She knew only minutes had elapsed since the boy had been kidnapped, but it felt like hours already. She couldn’t say a word to him. Couldn’t look him in the eye. Later, she’d come to regret not having thanked him for not blaming her daughter and taking the time to reassure her. She was the only one to blame, after all.

She couldn’t function the rest of the day – Winta was talking for the both of them, asking questions she couldn’t answer. Had Mando found the boy? Was he okay? Had he been arrested? Would they be coming back? How could they check if they were alright? Did she have his number? Were they hurt? Did they need their help again? What about the bad men?

They’d turned on the radio and even the TV, which Omera usually almost never allowed. But they learned nothing, even online. In the evening, it was reported that the roadblocks had moved north, to the Canadian border, and that several arrests had been made. Nothing about the soldier from Los Angeles, the man he’d killed in Castle Rock, or the toddler, although they both noted they’d stopped saying the police was looking for them.

“That’s good, right?” pressed Winta. “It must mean they finally know he’s innocent.”

Omera couldn’t prevent a small smile at that – she wasn’t sure when her daughter had come to that realization or decided that Mando deserved her trust, but she was grateful for him and the moments he had spent with Winta.

“I don’t know, baby. I hope so.”

The following couple of days didn’t prove any better – they automatically went back to their daily lives, her at work and Winta at summer school, but they still expected bad news at every corner.

To think that their existence had been so completely altered by two strangers who’d been under their roof for less than three days… She couldn’t come to terms with it. When she wasn’t worrying over possibilities she was careful not to mention to her daughter – what if they were dead? – she focused on her regrets. Omera had always thought they’d have time to say goodbye, at least. Just that. Just looking at them one last time and wishing them well.

On the third day, they’d stopped listening to the news. It was after dinner, and Winta was drawing in silence, subdued. Omera almost wished she’d go back to asking questions instead. But it was her who finally drew her back from her reverie – someone was at the door. A woman. Who introduced herself as Special Agent Cara Dune with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. She’d been the one Mando had met on the day his son was snatched outside. Omera didn’t know where to start, but Winta beat her to it.

“Are they okay? Were they hurt? How’s the baby? Where are they? He’s not going to prison, right?”

The woman smiled, and Omera remembered they were still standing outside and offered her to come in.

“I don’t have much time, I’m sorry, I need to get back to work. Mando’s in the hospital, but he’s going to be okay – I _think_. Concussion and pulmonary edema. Some surgery on his back, too. He was out for two days, but he’s stubborn, he asked me to come and tell you that him and the boy were fine.”

Omera sighed in relief and tried not to imagine how he’d injured himself. Pulmonary edema? What had he been doing?

“He’s really okay?” she surprised herself asking.

“Yeah, he’s a tough one,” the FBI Agent confirmed with a confident nod. “And he’ll have to be, for what’s coming.”

“What’s coming?” she repeated.

“There’s not much more I can share with you, I was only meant to come here to tell you they were still alive.”

Her bluntness didn’t deter Winta, though.

“But you’re not going to arrest him, he’s innocent!”

“Well, that’s for us to decide.”

Winta frowned, and it gave Omera strength.

“Thank you for coming to tell us, we mustn’t keep you. If you see them, tell them…” But she faltered. What could she _possibly_ tell them? She’d yearned for the occasion to say goodbye, but now that she had it, she was stumped.

“Tell them we miss them! And that they better be okay, and that they have to come visit soon,” announced Winta, once again faster than her at voicing her feelings.

“I’ll try to tell him that, but I don’t think I’ll be able to talk to the little one.”

“You mean they’re separated?” Of course they had been, Omera reasoned. But the realization had hurt too much to envision.

Cara Dune nodded, and for all her brashness, Omera could tell she agreed it was a painful way to end things between them, too. She must have seen with her own eyes what it did to Mando, and her heart broke for him anew.

“Could you… call us sometimes, once you know a bit more? Just… Some news, if you have any? I know you’re probably very busy, but…”

And bless her, she opened her phone to take down her number.

At first, she regretted not straight up asking her to get Mando to call her instead, but if she’d learned one thing about the man in the three days they had shared, it was that the fewer social interactions he had to subject himself to, the better he felt. He would have never _dared_ calling her. Even if he was sick with anguish about being separated from his son.

But her decision proved to be a good one – it seemed Cara Dune liked to text. At first, her messages were to the point and very sporadic: “He got out of the hospital”, “We still haven’t arrested him” or “He’s an idiot, but he’s doing okay”. After a while though, she started enjoying their virtual chats more and more, and they would talk about other stuff. TV shows. Books. Their youths. _Men_. She kept strange hours, and probably had a stupidly busy life that prevented her from a lot of social interactions, but contrary to Mando (she was supposed to call him ‘Din’ now, apparently – a name somehow 100% more suiting), it wasn’t by choice.

They never called, until one day in late October, she did: it was a short conversation.

“Are you free tonight?” she asked immediately.

“Yes,” Omera replied.

“Can I crash at your place?”

“Yes,” she repeated – Cara was in luck, Winta was at a rare sleepover for Halloween.

“Can I bring beer?”

“ _Please_ , do.”

So here they were, two or three beers in, slumped on the sofa in the living room, music in the background and take-out menus on the table – Cara wanted burgers, but they eventually settled on pizza. She’d had a long day at work in Seattle, and was to fly to San Diego the next day. Omera hadn’t expected that it would be so easy to talk to her directly when they had only been texting, but it was. She had a few friends, mostly colleagues, but this wasn’t something she did often.

“Anything you’re allowed to tell me?” she finally got the nerve to ask – the beer had helped.

“Well, he’s got immunity, so we’re definitely not going to arrest him. And he’s been…useful to our investigation. I can’t tell you on what, but let’s just say he deserves way more than a pardon. That took balls, what he did, and I wouldn’t like being in his shoes when I go out my door every morning.”

“You think he could still be in danger?”

“Hard to say,” Cara shrugged, “but he probably won’t be able to step foot in Los Angeles any time soon. That’d be suicide. Same if he had gone to jail.”

“Good thing he didn’t, then,” Omera voiced out, not really reassured.

Cara nodded.

“And the little boy? You said he was trying to adopt him? How’s that going?”

“It seems to be a very tedious process, if you ask me. Right now he’s trying to be a foster parent. His lawyer thinks it should be doable. Din on the other hand…”

“He’s not so confident,” she translated.

“Well, you’ve seen how he is. The glass is always half empty with him. You can tell how much he cares for the little one and misses him. And it’s fucking wrong that they can’t be together and it must be killing him inside. But he’s not helping his case with that stupid job of his.”

“What job?”

“Hmm, he probably wouldn’t like me to say,” Cara grumbled, opening another beer.

“It’s not like he’s going to call me to tell me about it,” she replied, rolling her eyes.

“Yeah,” she agreed, chuckling, “that would be the day. Din calling someone. Or picking up his phone, for that matter. I think only Paz manages to get through to him. And it’s usually to chew his ass.”

“How’s Paz?” Omera knew they were…kind of together, but not really. Cara wasn’t telling her much on that subject. But she was curious about the man, who’d been the one who’d shared the most about Din, after all.

“Paz is…Paz. He’s good. Worried about his friend even if he won’t say it.”

“He’s got a good heart.”

“Yeah,” Cara granted.

“They both do.”

“Sure. Both so _fucking_ stubborn, though.”

“Cheers to that,” Omera agreed, clinking her bottle to hers.

“It’s… I think he’ll be fine once he accepts he has a fair chance adopting the boy,” Cara started again after a while. “And he’s not there yet. He probably doesn’t want to get his hopes up. But without the child in his life…” she stopped and tried to find the right words, without revealing too much. “He was ready to just, go to jail. And that would have been it. He probably wouldn’t have survived _a_ _day_ inside.” Omera shuddered. “And now he’s better, and he has his two lawyers looking out for him. Helping us seems to have taken off this huge weight off his chest, which makes sense.”

“The man’s been carrying way too much guilt,” Omera concurred.

“Yeah, and you’d expect him to make more rational decisions now. But he’s just…” she sighed, and relented. “He showed up with bruises a few weeks ago, he’s…working as a bouncer for some seedy club. If he’d just admitted he needed help! But he’s…”

“…being self-destructive?” Omera finished. “That surprises you?”

“No,” Cara conceded.

“I hope he gets to adopt the boy. Soon. They belong together and you’re right – I think he needs to have him in his life to give it meaning.”

“Yeah, and Paz will kick his butt if he doesn’t look for another job – he has a theory about that, but he’s not sharing.”

“You think he’ll go back to being a soldier?” Omera asked.

“Back in the Air Force? No, I don’t think so – Paz wouldn’t shut up about it if that was the case, he’d be _over the moon_. I’ll make him talk. And we’re all supposed to meet up for Christmas in Bolinas.”

“That sounds nice…”

“I know!” Cara interrupted her, sitting up excitedly, “I know how to get him to come and see you…”

“Cara…”

“Hear me out! I know your daughter misses him and the boy too and would love to see them, and you don’t have to pretend you wouldn’t like that prospect either, I mean come on... You’re pining for him and that’s cute and everything, but he’s _never_ gonna take the first step, he needs a big push, and I think I know exactly…”

“I’m not _pining_ for him…” Omera denied, halting her impassioned speech.

“Admit it!”

“I admit that I wouldn’t mind _seeing_ him…them again, sure,” she corrected herself quickly.

“But more if offered, right? I mean he can’t be spending all that time in the gym just for his own sake. That would be such a waste…”

“You’re awful. Hand me another beer,” she protested half-heartedly.

Come Christmas Day, Omera had _almost_ forgotten about Cara’s plan. Almost, because the woman kept texting her about it, after all. One thing was for certain, though. Even if she never saw Din and his child again, she had definitely made a new friend in the FBI Agent. She’d told her about him becoming a foster parent, and she had actually shed a few tears of happiness for the man. He also had a ‘cool’ new job apparently, but she didn’t say what it was. Why the mystery, she had no idea.

She hadn’t wanted to get her daughter’s hopes up – she regularly (as in, every other day) asked her if she had any news about the boy and his father – so when she was finally able to tell her they were going to receive a video call from them in a few minutes, she unsurprisingly _freaked out_.

The first thing that struck her was how much the boy had grown. It made sense, it had been almost six months since she saw him for the last time. The second thing was how _younger_ Din looked. Sure, he was awkward and quickly overwhelmed by Winta’s questions, but he seemed almost boyish with his proper haircut and clean-shaven face. Hopefully, her surprise wasn’t showing too much on the small screen, and she spoke with Cara for a bit, before being introduced to Paz, who towered over all of them but still appeared to be genuinely friendly.

She received more texts from Cara in the following days, saying ridiculous things such as “The operation is a go, wait for further instructions” or “He is an idiot, you deserve better”. The last one that morning having been quite unclear – “Success, but please remember I won’t ever babysit” – she was unprepared for Winta screaming late afternoon: “They’re here! Mom, they’re here!”

But they were. Standing outside. The little boy sitting on his father’s shoulders. Both looking timidly hopeful. The child because he probably couldn’t remember having been there already. And the man because he could remember it all too well.

“Come in,” Omera told them.


	2. Ghosts

Cara had won in the end – although admittedly, he’d mostly been _pretending_ like he was still debating whether he’d stop by Omera’s place on the way back to Seattle. The Christmas break had made him realize it was actually quite nice to see people. He’d been so focused on spending as much time as possible with Santi, given the puny amount of days the DHS still allowed them, that he’d forgotten that sharing the experience with others was somehow half the fun. He’d be nowhere today if it wasn’t for Kuiil, I.G., Cara, Paz, but also Omera. Din dreaded to think what would have happened if he had parked somewhere else, that day. If she hadn’t found him and helped him after he’d been stabbed. So paying a visit to her was _nothing_ compared to what he actually owed her.

Still, he decided it was safer to park at the start of the track leading to her home. No point bothering her if she wasn’t there, or busy, or with family. It would have been a good idea to call ahead for sure, but then he’d have been deeply _committed_ to coming. And he’d been sorely tempted not to make the turn on the Interstate and continue on to Seattle…

Din felt bad for not having reached out sooner – just to say thanks, at least. Or to tell her that the boy and him were fine. He’d relied on Cara for that, so he couldn’t actually blame her for pestering him to fix his mistake. Omera and her daughter had deserved better from him. And now it was almost six months later and he felt a bit silly.

“ _¡_ _Hombros!_ ” Santi said as soon as he’d released him from his seat and put on his coat. That had quickly become his preferred mode of transportation, and Din didn’t mind much, raising him up quickly over his head so that he could sit comfortably on his shoulders. It also meant he hadn’t felt the need to buy a stroller yet, and given how well the boy walked now – when he didn’t feel tired, lazy or simply in need of some physical closeness, like now – he’d probably never have to. That was fine with him, as both his hands could still be free if he needed to carry things, as long as the kid held on tight, which he did, and it meant not having to worry that he could lose the boy in a crowd. Also, he thought the way _some_ parents pushed those monstrously big things around in the streets was simply scary.

The only thing he had to be careful with were doorways and low hanging signs or branches, as was the case now. He held onto Santi’s small ankles as they made their way up the track, mindful of the fir trees. The boy was babbling happily, pointing at things and getting the word right – most of the times – but Din’s mind had started to wander. The last time they’d been there, the little one had been snatched away by Gideon and his goon. He swallowed hard, and kept expecting that the child would somehow remember the traumatic event and start crying. But it seemed to be all in his head – the disturbing memory was for Din only, which was for the best.

They hadn’t even reached the porch when the front door burst open, an over-excited Winta coming out, her mother following more demurely behind. Din hadn’t had the time to formulate the right opening, but that was okay – as always, the young girl was miles ahead of him already.

“Hi! You’re here! Like you said you would! Can I see him? How is he?” she asked, eyeing the toddler on his shoulders. Said toddler certainly felt he was missing out on the action, and had started gesticulating wildly.

“Hi,” he said to Omera, who was still standing on the porch. “Is it okay? We’re not bothering you?” he queried, his hands rising up to stop Santi from pulling his hair every which way – something he tended to do when he wanted to be put down.

“Of course not,” she replied, smiling at his grimace, “you’re always welcome here, come in from the cold.”

Din nodded in thanks, and finally granted the boy’s wish. Once down though, he didn’t run towards Winta, as he’d almost expected him to. There was _some_ recollection there he thought, but the little one was still being cautious, standing against his legs.

The young girl could tell she needed to be calmer now, and approached them slowly, her smile still firmly in place – she didn’t seem to mind that the child didn’t immediately recognize her.

“So I guess I can properly introduce him to you, now. Winta, meet Santiago. Santi, do you remember Winta? She showed you how to draw elephants and read you _Stuart Little_ from start to finish.”

“Hi Santi,” she said quietly, kneeling in front of the boy. “Do you want some cookies? We just baked some.”

Santi being who he was, a stomach on two legs, nodded enthusiastically, his round eyes getting even rounder. Winta copied his gesture with a giggle and took his small hands in hers.

“You’re coming with me?”

Another nod, although he did raise his curly mop towards him, his little eyebrows clearly communicating that he expected him to follow, too.

They all made their way to the kitchen, Din glad to be inside where it was warmer – he’d gotten used to the Californian temperatures of Bolinas for the last week. Over cookies and hot chocolate, Din was struck at how easy and seamless this all felt – sitting with Santi making crumbs on his lap, Winta talking a mile a minute about anything and everything, never waiting for one reply before she asked another question, and Omera looking at him almost in apology, but not really. As if part of her thought he’d kind of deserved this – his payment for not giving news for 6 months. Fair enough, Din acknowledged silently. Fair enough.

Now that she had plied him with food, Santi was a lot more malleable to follow Winta around, and they both ran along to the living room, the girl intending to find out if he’d made progress in his drawing.

“Thanks for coming over, it means a lot to Winta. And it’s nice to see you both looking so well,” said Omera once they were alone.

Din nodded bashfully, still not quite ready to tell her it was nice to see her looking so well, too. Because she really did.

“It’s almost funny how much he looks like you,” she marveled.

“What do you mean?” he asked, puzzled.

“No one told you? Maybe it’s just me, then. Maybe it’s seeing the two of you together that makes me think that.”

“I…never really noticed it,” Din admitted.

“The little dimples in his cheeks when he smiles, now. Trust me, it’s there,” Omera said.

“I guess we haven’t been around that many people. Just Paz and Cara this last week. I’m more worried about his vocabulary than anything, really.”

“They’re a bad influence?” she chuckled.

“Well…his brain is like a sponge, lately. It’s crazy.”

Omera nodded, well aware of this.

“And they don’t change the way they speak when he’s around. Which is okay, I guess. I mean, I don’t do the baby talk thing and I often mess up myself. But some words I don’t really want him to repeat. Especially at the home. Although he probably learns some bad words over there as well...”

“You still have to share him with social services?” Omera queried.

 _Share him_. That was an interesting way to put it, Din thought. To him, it mostly felt like they were _stealing_ him. It was pretty selfish, he knew, as if the DHS couldn’t give the boy _anything_ valuable. Still, he hoped Santi wouldn’t be repeating everything he had learned to the workers over there. That’d probably make him look bad.

“It’s the first time I’ve had him for so long,” Din explained. “We only had a few weekends here and there in the last three months. But it was worse at the beginning when I couldn’t see him at all. So there’s progress, I guess,” he shrugged.

Omera remained silent. Din wondered how much of it was her imagining being separated from her own daughter, and how much was simply not knowing what to say. He wished he was better at conversation and could talk about more pleasant subjects.

“How have you been? Cara said you’re texting?” he tried.

“Yeah, we are,” she confirmed. “It took me by surprise too, at first. But it’s been nice communicating with her. We’ve become quite close, actually.”

“She seems fond of you too,” Din confirmed. And fond of making my life miserable because of it, he wanted to add, but didn’t.

“It’s funny how these things play out, sometimes. You meet people under strange circumstances and you just…click.”

“Right,” he nodded again automatically, then paused, wondering what she had meant exactly.

“Let’s go check on the kids,” Omera said, standing up and hiding her grin.

Winta was drawing more animals for Santi, who preferred coloring them than copying them. He would then hand him the result proudly, and Din would wonder if there were any free spots left on the fridge at home to put them on. Maybe he’d convince the boy to gift a few as well. Omera’s daughter kept oohing and aahing each time he uttered a new word correctly, and would ask him to repeat when he said it in Spanish so that she could learn it too.

“He does that sometimes, sorry. Mixing the two up. I always try to give him both versions when he asks, but some words are just easier for him in Spanish, I think.”

“It’s amazing that he knows both… And he talks so much now!” she marveled, utterly taken once again with his little boy, which warmed him over more than the hot chocolate they had just finished drinking, the pure adoration on her face so visible.

“I’m probably messing up. I read on the Internet that it could be too confusing when it’s the same parent talking both languages, especially when they are so young. But they’d stopped speaking Spanish to him at the home, so I just thought I’d better carry on.”

“You’re not messing up,” replied Winta with conviction. “He’s gonna speak two languages, that’s just great.”

Din smiled, somehow pleased by the ten-year-old’s simple logic. You couldn’t beat that, after all.

“You’re staying for a few days, right?” the girl asked a little while later, probably noticing him fidgeting on the couch and looking outside. The low winter sun had already set, and home was still a two-hour drive away.

“I, uh…” he started, turning towards Omera for help, but she just raised her eyebrows in question, expecting him to voice his preference. “Don’t you have family visiting or something? A few days might be a bit much, but…”

“No, we had but they left already. It’s just me and mom. And school doesn’t start for another week. Do you have to go back to work already? Mom still has a few days off, too.”

“I still have a week off for Santi, so I guess we could at least stay tonight if you’re really sure it’s no trouble…”

“Stay more!”

“Winta, it’s his decision,” chastised Omera in a quiet but firm voice, then turned to him “and of course it’s no trouble, stay tonight and decide tomorrow if you want to stay longer.”

Din was strangely reminded of the last time he’d been here – under _vastly_ different circumstances, to be sure, but even then Omera had been both practical and agreeable: stay, and take things one day at a time. Something he could definitely appreciate.

“Thank you,” he told her, trying not to imagine Cara’s victory dance once she learned about it.

Dinner was a laid back affair, as they had all already enjoyed a lot of food in the last few days, and Din parked the car closer afterwards and brought back his and the kid’s stuff. The cot was already waiting for Santi in the guest room upstairs – how long it had been there, he wasn’t sure and didn’t ask – and Winta helped him give the boy a bath and read him stories afterwards. She stayed in the room for the last one as well, in Spanish, when Santi’s eyes were barely managing to stay open and his warm head would drop heavily against his chest.

“It’s Spanish his name? Santi?” she asked him downstairs once the boy was well and truly asleep, her mother telling her she was also due to go to bed soon.

“Yes, Santiago, it’s the capital of Chile where my parents came from. It means Saint-James: Santo Iago. It’s a popular name in South America and Spain,” he explained, used to her ways by now – she’d have fewer questions later if he answered her thoroughly. And he didn’t really mind.

“And that’s why you chose it? For your parents?”

“I did, I never managed to find the name _his_ parents gave him, so I thought it was the next best thing I could do.”

“Are your parents dead, too?”

“Yes, they died when I was a bit younger than you.”

“Oh, I’m sorry…” A very short-lived pause. “Is that why you joined the army, then? To have a new family?”

Din started – the girl was pushing against the sofa, sliding on her socked feet playfully. Completely at ease, yet completely serious.

“Partly, I think,” he answered after a while. “And I met my best friend there, Paz. You saw him during our video call the other day.”

“The very big guy?”

“Yes, the very big guy,” Din smiled, making himself more comfortable on the couch – at the rate this was going, he’d be answering Winta’s questions for a while. “But he’s actually very nice. And Santi’s second name, Dawid, is to honor his own little brother, who died when he was young, too.”

She seemed to think about everything he’d just told her for a few seconds. Din wondered if he was being a bit too _frank_ with her – he wasn’t sugar coating anything and she was just a kid.

“It’s good that Santi is so happy all the time. He doesn’t mind that his names are sad.”

“You think his names are sad?”

“Well, no… I just mean, they _come_ from something sad, but he makes it alright.”

That had also been part of his reasoning, and he nodded, glad that Winta saw it that way as well – he hoped he wasn’t burdening the kid with such a depressing history.

“It’s like your name, too,” she added, leaning on the sofa now, but still standing up – aware that her mother was in the background and wanting to show her she wasn’t getting comfortable, she knew she was supposed to go to bed soon.

“My name?” Din repeated, confused.

“Mando was a weird name, but it wasn’t your name, right?”

“No, not really,” he confirmed, although it was strange saying it out loud – he’d been ‘Mando’ longer than he’d been ‘Din’, after all.

“So it makes sense that your _real_ name fits.”

“Din? You think it fits?”

“Mom said Cara told her it meant ‘belief’, right? In Arabic?”

“Yeah, ‘faith’, or ‘religion’,” he replied, surprised that Cara had shared that information. And even more surprised that not only had Omera shared it with her daughter, Winta had remembered it.

“It’s a bit like ‘trust’. Or ‘hope’,” she continued, somehow fascinated with the subject, her chin resting on her hands.

“I guess...”

“Well, that’s a lot like you. With Santi. You two, together. Mom says names always have meanings, even when they are very simple or you don’t really notice it…” She pushed against the back of the couch again, her arms rising above her head. “Like me, Winta. It means ‘aspiration‘ or ‘ambition’. It’s a bit like ‘hope’, too. It comes from Ethiopia in Africa. Everybody thinks it means ‘winter’ like the season, but they’re wrong. Did you know that?”

“I didn’t.”

“Don’t you think it suits me?” she asked, twirling on the spot.

“Yeah, it really does,” he agreed with a smile, seeing how pleased his answer made her feel.

“Winta, I told you to go brush your teeth ten minutes ago already,” Omera interrupted them from the doorway, her warm eyes offsetting her words.

“But mom, we’re having a _really_ important conversation, me and Din,” Winta complained, her tone still absolutely serious.

“I’m sure you can continue that conversation tomorrow, darling,” her mother hedged.

“You’ll still be there tomorrow morning? You’re not leaving before breakfast, right? Mom might make French toasts, she said.”

“I’ll be there, Santi and I wouldn’t miss that,” Din told her, only half-surprised at how easily the words had come out.

He stayed on the sofa while Omera slowly managed to get Winta to go to bed – it was a tough negotiation, and he tried to take down mental notes. He could tell Santi would also be stubborn and hard to convince in a few years – he already was. That gave him pause, as he didn’t often let himself imagine how things would be so far in the future. He never had, and for good reasons, his life being so unpredictable and unsafe most of the time. But now, with a child, it was impossible not to. Even if the boy wasn’t even legally _his_ yet, and it could all still go to hell. He didn’t know what he’d do though, if something happened. If, for some reason, his petition to adopt the boy wasn’t granted. He was too invested now – they both were. It didn’t take him long to realize that if legal ways wouldn’t work in his favor, he’d probably find others, and the thought didn’t scare him as much as it should.

“You’re very pensive,” said Omera, sitting down next to him. Not too close, he noted – she always did that, and he wondered what that said about him.

“Just looking at you and Winta and wondering what Santi’s gonna be like at that age,” he admitted freely. Omera was the only other parent he knew. And that was bad – he needed to make more efforts, meet more people, as he’d frankly need all the help he could get. Google would only get him so far.

“Your son is better behaved than Winta was when she was two, trust me. If this is any indication, and it usually is, you’re going to be _fine_.”

“Really? She seems pretty easy-going to me. I mean, she does ask a lot of questions, but that’s okay…”

“Not that many people think like you. You’re very patient with her,” Omera replied, appreciative.

“She’s a great kid. I don’t know if I’m supposed to say that, as I’m truly not an authority on the matter, but I think you’re doing really well with her. I mean, if that’s something that worries you. It shouldn’t, is what I’m saying,” he spoke haltingly, the words no longer coming so easily.

Her warm brown eyes settled in a peaceful expression, and he assumed he’d said something right, at least. They didn’t speak for a while, but for once it wasn’t awkward. Din admired the light festive touches that decorated the room and hadn’t been there back in July – nothing garish or overly Christmassy, but it made her house feel even more welcoming. A place you wanted to spend time in. A place where you felt safe. But contrary to the arguments she had used to get her daughter to go to bed earlier, this wasn’t something he could easily take notes on, in the hope to recreate it. Some of it was just intrinsically _her_ and the way she made him feel.

“Can you tell me what happened on that day?” she eventually asked. Din had never seen her look so unsure – the words had cost her, and she’d debated them at length. “I know so much has happened since then, and the fact that you are here with your son should tell me all I need to know, really. But… part of me is still stuck. Part of me is still watching you storm out of here after your boy was snatched away.”

“It was a very bad day. The worst, really…”

“I know, and I’m sorry for making you relive it…” she acknowledged, grimacing.

“…until it wasn’t,” he interrupted her, not wanting her to feel guilty for asking about it. She deserved to know – she’d lived through it too, after all. “Because you’re right – everything changed.”

“How so?” she pressed.

Din shrugged, wondering how he could phrase it in a way that would make sense to her. “ _I_ changed. I thought I knew who I was, and what I was worth. But I had it wrong…” her frown told him he’d lost her. He had to keep things simpler. “Cara and I caught up with the two men you saw, on some beach north of here. Moff Gideon, the gang boss who was after Santi for very selfish reasons, and one of his stooges, who shot Cara, but that was my fault, I was distracted. I shot him, and then I ran after Gideon…”

“Where was your boy?” she chimed in – he was going too fast.

“Safe, Cara had him. She wasn’t hurt badly.”

“So why did you run after him?” Omera queried, trying to make sense of the amount of information he was sharing for once.

“Because…” Din had to think carefully – but it was actually worryingly easy to find himself back in that frame of mind and remember what he had felt then. “Because I wanted to end things. I wanted it to be over, and for the kid to be safe again.”

“So you shot that man Gideon, too?”

“I…” Try as he might, there wasn’t any nice way to put it. If he could be honest with her daughter, he had to find a way to be honest with her as well. “No, in the end, I drowned him. It took a while, we… We fought. At one point he really had the upper hand and I thought I was done for.”

“The pulmonary edema Cara mentioned,” Omera remembered. “That’s how it happened, I always wondered.” She sighed deeply. “You almost drowned too, then.”

He nodded, sparing her the rest of the story – she didn’t need to know about their escape in the helicopter and his subsequent blackout. He’d admitted a fair share already and she had enough arguments to think him foolish as it was.

“And your concussion?”

Din tried not to roll his eyes – Cara had given her more details than he had hoped.

“He came at me with a rock during the clash,” he answered, miming the movement towards the left side of his head.

Omera sat back down and looked into the distance, silent. He could no longer see her face, but it was easy to guess she wasn’t very impressed.

“Sorry, I never seem to start the right kind of conversations. It’s always a bit grim…” Din blurted out, finding the silence too oppressive after a while.

Her shoulders started shaking and for one horrible moment, Din thought she was crying – but no, she was laughing. A nervous laugh that ended quickly and proved impossible to decipher.

“Thanks for being truthful with me,” she eventually said, turning towards him again. Her expression was similarly one he wasn’t familiar with. A mix of wonder and sadness. And something else. Before he could put his finger on it, she stood up.

“It’s not very late, but I’m feeling a bit tired, so I’ll retire. Do you have everything you need in the guest room?”

“Huh, yes, thank you,” he replied and she nodded.

“Feel free to stay in the living room and watch some TV,” she added from the bottom of the stairs.

“It’s fine, I have stuff to read for work, but thanks.”

“Good night, then.”

“Good night,” he answered, wondering if there was anything he could have said to make her stay a bit longer. But there probably wasn’t. Or at least, not something that would have come easily.

He didn’t feel like staying in the room now that she was gone, and he went up shortly after. There was no light showing from Winta’s room, but he could tell that a lamp was still on in Omera’s. Din sighed quietly, closed his door, and sat next to the boy’s cot for long minutes, watching him sleep peacefully. He eventually found the courage to read a bit in bed – security protocols he had to remember by heart. It was mostly a refresher, as even in the military he’d had trainings for situations involving civilians, but he still needed to focus. Something that wasn’t coming easily at all, tonight. He felt his eyes starting to glaze over after an hour of almost mindless jargon, and gave up. He vowed to pay more attention the next day – on his readings, and on other stuff, too.

Din didn’t sleep very well, but still woke up early, before dawn. Santi was fussing quietly in his cot, and he debated whether he should pick him up or let him try to fall back to sleep. But hunger seemed to prevail in the little one, as it usually did, and he slowly got up from the bed.

“Did you sleep okay, _tesoro_?” He asked as he was changing and dressing him, the repetitive movements soothing and welcomed despite his grogginess.

The boy nodded but rubbed his eyes, yawning. Maybe he’d manage to put him back to bed after a bottle – he could usually sleep a couple more hours in the morning. If Omera was up by then, he’d ask her if she’d keep an eye on him while he went for a run. He needed to think and wake up properly, and that was as good a method as any. Din tried brushing the toddler’s messy hair but soon gave up when he started grumbling a bit too loudly.

“I know, you just want food, I’m being cruel,” he acknowledged, picking him up again and grabbing the stuff he needed for his breakfast.

Din quietly walked downstairs, dawn light just making itself know to the east, but was surprised to see Omera in the kitchen already, drinking coffee and looking outside, her long dark hair smooth and untied.

“Morning,” he said, his voice still gravely.

“Morning,” she replied with an easy smile.

“We didn’t wake you, right?” he made sure, plugging in the bottle warmer one-handed.

“No, I usually wake up with the sun. But Winta will be a few more hours, so you’ll be safe from her questions for a little longer.”

He nodded, and went back to his preparations, dropping measured scoops of formula in the bottled water he had added. Santi was getting impatient in his arms, but he knew from experience he wouldn’t like to be put down, even if that meant he could get his bottle ready quicker – he’d tried having this conversation with him already, and it hadn’t worked.

“Give him to me,” Omera said, putting her coffee cup on the table. “You’ve been hogging him with Winta yesterday and I didn’t even get a hug,” she complained.

Din easily complied, her words stirring something indescribable in his chest.

“Hello Santi,” she said, swaying slightly as the boy stared at her intently, cataloguing the features of this somewhat new person he’d been handed to.

Din left them to their staring contest and quiet words, and put the bottle in the warmer. That was one more item to add to the list of things he needed to think about – it was going to be a long run.

The two seemed well acquainted by the time the formula was ready, and he almost felt like an intruder observing them.

“Do you want to feed him?” he asked Omera and for once, he could tell that was exactly the right thing to say.

She sat down with Santi, who by this age didn’t need any help drinking his bottle, but still relished the quiet moment and physical contact.

“Go for a run if you want, I’ll look after him.”

His astonishment at her prescience must have shown, because she quickly grinned and explained that Cara had informed her he’d been enjoying morning jogs in Bolinas when they were together. He was very much tempted to ask her what _else_ Cara had felt the need to share, but instead accepted her offer.

“You might be able to put him back to bed afterwards,” he told her, his eyes lingering on their slow movements, the strange feeling in his chest intensifying.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay if Winta wakes up and I’m still away?” he checked.

“Din, I can take care of two kids at the same time,” she replied, mock frowning, and he felt a bit silly.

He rushed upstairs to change before he could say any other stupid thing, and by the time he came down again, the boy was almost done with his bottle.

“You think you’ll be warm enough?” asked Omera, eyeing his sweatpants and hoodie. “It’s not California.”

Din nodded – he’d been running in Seattle too lately, and he knew he’d warm up quickly.

“I shouldn’t be too long,” he offered.

“We’ll be fine,” she told him again. “Run straight ahead through the woods and you’ll reach the beach,” she pointed. “Our neighbor moved out recently and the place is empty, so no one will mind.”

Din tried not to startle – that was probably Pershing, the loan shark Omera had unfortunately been acquainted with, but he wasn’t supposed to know his name. He’d have to ask Winta about it: this was good news, in any case – one less thing he had to worry about.

Once outside, he realized that maybe he should have listened to Omera and layered up – it was colder than Seattle by several degrees. Wanting to avoid her deserved ‘I told you so’, he pulled up his hood and clapped his gloved hands together to warm himself up, then made his way to the beach in the direction she had pointed at a brisk pace.

His doctor had warned him to take things slow with his lungs, and he’d tried to follow his advice. But since the start of winter, he could tell something was still healing inside him. When cold air came in too quickly, he felt a strong push against his chest and had to slow down, his lungs somehow refusing to expand to their fullest. He hadn’t been bothered in Bolinas, but the morning air was just below freezing today and he tried pacing himself once he’d reached the sand.

That gave him the opportunity to reflect more, but once he started running back facing north, there was only one thing on his mind – if he squeezed his eyes just right, he could see the jetty where Cara and him had docked on that fateful day. And behind it, the beach where Moff had met his end, taking part of him with him in the process with his revelations. Something else he hadn’t mentioned to Omera the previous day – Santi’s safety hadn’t been the only thing on his mind when he’d run after Gideon.

The more he thought about it, the more he realized that he wouldn’t be at peace until he saw the place up close again. Part of him needed to know all was still well over there. Stupid and pointless, he could admit to himself, but he’d made up his mind when he reached the house again an hour later, his painful lungs and the cold air both forgotten.

And yet, when he saw his boy still in Omera’s arms when he came back, looking warm, safe and contended, he wondered why he was doing this to himself. Why he felt the need to stir the past and revisit painful memories. But it was the only way he knew how to move on. It was that or trying to express the sudden onset of jealousy at seeing his son play with Omera’s lush hair – he didn’t have the words and wouldn’t ridicule himself trying to find them, so he’d settle for the easier choice.

She had looked at him a bit strangely when he asked right after lunch if she wouldn’t mind looking after Santi for a couple more hours, but she didn’t inquire where he was going. Winta seemed puzzled too and he was almost convinced once more to forego his stupid plan, but when the boy had been put down for his nap, he knew there was no turning back.

Din drove slowly, not wanting to miss the place – he had to go around the bay this time, and it took longer than expected to reach the parking lot where Moff’s backup had arrived from, minutes away in the end from probably killing all three of them.

Fittingly, there was no one but him on the beach.

The air was colder, but the absence of strong wind threw him at first. His senses had been overwhelmed by it on that day: the sound it made drowning all others, its harshness against his wet face and clothes unforgiving. Din sat down on what he thought was the right spot and closed his eyes. He remembered thinking how simple it would have been to let go – first when he’d been underwater, and then when he’d finally come up for air and lied down on the sand, Gideon’s motionless body a few feet from his own. It was an addictive feeling – nothing could hurt again once you accepted death as the answer. He opened his eyes and breathed in deeply, fighting the memory. Breathed in until it hurt, his lungs the physical testament of that day. Din ran his hands through his hair, trying to feel for the place where the rock had cracked his skull – but there was nothing there anymore.

It was funny in a way, he thought – every painful event in his life had left a physical scar, except two: the death of his parents, and this. His body was riddled with reminders of bad outcomes and close calls. And yet, the worst two days of his life had left no trace. There was no actual wound to take care of. No simple way to prevent it from festering. Nothing to dress or close up with stitches or staples. Nothing to treat with pills and rest. The healing process went beyond the physical, and he didn’t need a goddamned psychiatrist to tell him the scars were in his mind, and needed a different kind of care. One that could easily take years.

Din breathed in again, more slowly, and lay his hands against the cold sand, feeling the texture of each grain against his fingers. He looked towards the horizon. The sun would be setting soon, but it had disappeared behind grey clouds long ago. Still, there was one more thing he could be sure of – the ghosts were also only in his head. The beach was quiet and peaceful. There was no evil spirit lingering or whatever else his fucked-up mind had come up with that morning.

He rubbed his hands against his jeans and took out his phone to take a picture. Something to look at any time his mind wanted to play more tricks on him. On a whim, he sent it to Cara, thinking she’d appreciate knowing all was well with the world here. Before he had time to put his phone back in his pocket though, it rang, displaying Paz’s number.

“Paz?”

“It’s me,” Cara replied. “I know you always pick up when Paz calls.”

“I pick up when you call,” he argued.

“You let it go to voicemail,” she countered.

“But then I call back.”

“That’s not the same as picking up,” she informed him.

“Sorry,” he said, wondering where she was going with this and thinking apologizing would work in his favor.

“I received your picture,” Cara told him.

“Oh, good.”

“It’s… Din, it’s a bit fucking grim.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, clearly not seeing it that way.

“You drove there especially? Are you with the kid?”

“No, he’s still with Omera and Winta.”

“So you drove here especially, you weren’t on your way back to Seattle,” she pressed.

“No,” he admitted.

“And you can’t see how fucked-up that is?”

Okay, that he had _kind of_ worked out on his own.

“Maybe a little,” he acknowledged, “but I felt like I needed to come, you know?”

“No, Din, I _don’t_ know. It’s… Mate, I don’t even know where to start. It’s fucking _wrong_. You revisiting old crime scenes, that’s…”

“I’ve only been here a few minutes, I just needed to think for a bit,” he defended himself. “I’ll be leaving soon. But I shouldn’t have sent that picture, you’re right, I’m sorry, it was stupid.”

He heard Cara sigh, probably thinking over her words.

“I get that it’s still bothering you, how could it not? You almost died, and you killed the man responsible for everything that went wrong in your life. But don’t you see how _good_ you have it now? How _lucky_ you were in the end? Everything is going right for you at the moment, and I know it’s not a magic trick. I know it’s not something you can automatically accept but…”

“I know, Cara. I’m just… I’m trying. And you’re right, I _am_ lucky and everything is finally falling into place, but it’s just so…”

_Fucked-up. Undeserved. Weird. Painful. Scary._

“…so fragile,” he ended up saying. “And I don’t want to mess it up.”

“You’re not messing it up, you’re trying, as you said, and that’s really good, Din. But you also have to give yourself a break. You’ve _earned_ this. You _worked_ for it. So hard.”

Din hugged his legs to his chest – he was getting cold, sitting there, and he felt foolish for having put Cara in this position. Foolish for having come here in the first place. What had he been thinking?

“You have to look to the future, now. You have to let all that shit go.”

“I know,” he repeated. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, Din. You have nothing to be sorry for. You saved me too on that day, remember?”

He smiled and didn’t point out that she had been the one saving him in the first place – and getting shot in the process. Because she already knew.

“But listen to me now… Are you listening?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed, his grin still in place – he knew he was going to be told off now, and he welcomed it.

“Get your ass off this depressing beach, drive back to Omera’s place, and hug your kid. That kid is everything now, and you know it. And when you’re done, hug that beautiful woman who for the life of me, seems to think you’re worth it. Don’t make me regret sending you here. Because you are both driving me fucking nuts, and you deserve each other. Did you get all that?”

“Loud and clear,” he confirmed, already standing up.

“Good, then go.”

“Hey, Cara?” he said before she hung up. “Thanks.”

“For what? Pushing you in the right direction?”

“For having my back,” he spelled out.

“Anytime.”

The journey back seemed to take a lot less time, thankfully. He’d taken Cara’s orders to heart – she was right, he needed to look forwards, not backwards, and he’d known this before driving to that stupid beach. He hoped it was just him feeling melancholy because he’d revisited places he had tried to forget. He wanted to disassociate whatever had happened on the beach to everything that had happened before – he’d found shelter at Omera’s, and he’d felt safe, there. He wanted to recapture that.

He’d been gone less than two hours, but when he rejoined them in the living room, he felt like it had been days instead. They all had smiles for him, and he tried to convince himself that he deserved them. When his little boy ambled along towards him, he didn’t hesitate for a second though, grabbed him under his shoulders, and thrust him a couple of feet in the air above his head, to happy squeals of delight.

“I missed you, _cariño_ ,” he told him, not minding for once if he was heard. “And I feel like I haven’t hugged you all day,” he lamented, and proceeded to crush him against his chest, the child giggling at his silly antics.

“Was everything okay?” he asked Omera and her daughter who – bless them – didn’t look at him as if he’d lost his mind.

“We’ve been drawing and I read him some stories and mom gave him _two_ cookies,” announced Winta.

He still hadn’t relinquished Santi and was now carrying him over his shoulder and holding him by his feet, something else that always generated loud roars of laughter, as it did now.

“He’s gonna explode!” Winta uttered with a chuckle.

“Nonsense,” he proclaimed, rising him over his head again to make sure he was indeed still breathing and merry – he was – and lifted him as high as his arms would go, something that he usually only let Paz do, and under strict surveillance.

“Higher, higher, dada!” he shouted, and Din stood on his tiptoes to grant him his wish, and after one last shriek of joy, pulled him back in his arms and kissed his forehead.

He hugged him gently, quite aware that he’d pay the price for so much excitement later when he’d have to calm him down before bed. But it had been worth it – the sound of his son’s laughter erasing any remaining misgivings he might have had. This was him focusing on the now, and he hadn’t missed Omera’s look and the feeling it had generated in his chest – he’d finally found the right word for it. It was longing. And maybe sometime soon he’d be able to follow Cara’s second piece of advice.


	3. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your comments and kudos! This chapter is lacking plot a bit... It's mostly family fluff with a bit of angst. Next chapter will have more action, but I felt this interlude was needed.

He'd been gone a little over an hour when her phone rang. Unsurprisingly, the boy hadn’t slept much, but whether it was because he had felt his father’s weird mood before going to sleep, or simply the promise of cookies and games with Winta, she wasn’t sure. That was okay though, as she was actually enjoying having the child to herself. More than she had expected. He was just too cute for words, at that special age where everything was wonder and amazement, and she couldn’t help experiencing them as well. Still, when she saw Cara’s number on her phone, she relinquished Santi to Winta in the living room, and went to the kitchen for a bit more privacy – you never knew what the conversation would be like with Cara.

“He’s not back yet, right?” she asked without preamble.

“If you mean Din, then no. But wait, how do you know he was gone?” she queried.

“He called me, just now. Well, I called him. He sent me a picture and I called him afterwards.”

Cara sounded upset. Her usual verve absent from her words – that was new, and worrying.

“Is he okay? What happened?” Omera pressed, walking the length of the small room, unable to sit down.

“He’s… He didn’t tell you where he was going?” she asked.

“No, he just asked if we could look after Santi for a couple of hours. But he’s been strange since he came back from his run this morning. I could tell something was up, but he wouldn’t say. Is he alright?” she repeated.

“Yeah, I think he’s fine, now. He should arrive soon. He might still be a bit ‘strange’ as you said, but hopefully better.”

“What happened?”

“He’s been taking a trip down memory lane, and not a good one.”

“Something to do with that Moff Gideon?” Omera guessed.

“He told you about him?”

“Well, not much, but he talked about him a bit yesterday. I felt bad for bringing the subject up, though. Do you think that’s why he’s been moody?”

“The man is always moody,” replied Cara. “He carries a big grey cloud over his head wherever he goes like that cartoon character.”

“You know what I mean…” Omera sighed, unamused.

“Maybe, I don’t know. But I think he would have gotten there on his own, he’s good at focusing on what he shouldn’t.” A pause. “What did he tell you? About Moff Gideon?”

“I asked him to tell me about that day,” Omera related, trying to remember everything. “And he said you were shot because of him, that he killed the one responsible then ran after this Gideon. They fought, he almost killed him and then he drowned him.”

“That’s it?” Cara marveled.

“What else was there?”

“He didn’t tell you _why_ he killed Gideon? The real reason he ran after him in the first place?”

“He said he wanted to ‘end things’, and for the kid to be safe again, whatever that meant. I could tell there was more to it, but I didn’t want to push him too hard.”

“Well, you should have. That’s only half the story he told you there.”

“What should he have told me?”

“You need to ask him, Omera. It won’t work if it comes from me. I’m not sure he was completely honest with Paz about it either...” Cara admitted.

Omera finally sat down – she had known he hadn’t been _entirely_ candid with her. When he told her the story, she’d been shocked at how little sense it made. She knew he could be impulsive, and stubborn, but this was something else. The man didn’t do anything lightly. Although he’d admitted in a roundabout way that he’d done things he wasn’t proud of, and she knew it meant he had probably killed people in cold blood for his gang, he was not the kind of person who would run after danger heedlessly either. Especially if it meant leaving his little boy behind with a wounded ally. He was not _careless_. He was a lot of things, but not that.

“I’ll try,” she eventually replied. “But I don’t want to scare him off. It’s amazing that he came here at all, and it’s been nice having him and his son.”

“He’s stronger than you think, and it will do him good to talk. Just…be a bit patient with him. He’s worth it.”

Omera smiled – it was nice hearing Cara obviously caring for her friend.

“Oh, so now he’s not an ‘idiot’ I’m supposedly ‘pining for’, then?”

“He _is_ an idiot and you _are_ pining for him, but he’s also a good man. Just a slightly damaged one,” Cara answered, her usual spunk back.

“I think I’m partly to blame for today,” Omera confessed. “I shouldn’t have pestered him about revisiting that day and Winta has been going at him pretty hard. She’s starting to ask difficult questions.”

“Like what? Who am I? What’s the meaning of life? Why do I only find fucked-up people attractive?”

“The first two, yes,” she couldn’t help but chuckle, feeling terrible. “The last one, thankfully not yet.”

“Listen, you’re doing fine. He’s not going to get better if you don’t rough him up a bit. Gently, though, yeah? Get him drunk or something, he’s been a lot more talkative here this past week once he had a few.”

“You know that’s terrible advice, right?”

“Not at all! I’m not saying get him completely plastered, just…make him comfortable. Within reason!” she quickly added. “Don’t jump his bones, that might send the wrong message. Though _God knows_ he probably needs it. Just wait a bit for that one, if you can control yourself.”

“I’ll try my hardest,” she deadpanned. “And think of gardening instead or something.”

“Good choice, that should do it. Oh, and don’t say I called. He won’t like that. Try to pretend you had no idea where he was. Just…act natural. And see if you can make him stay for a little while, it will do him good to spend more time here. He needs to realize he doesn’t need to live in the past.”

“Funny, the first time he was here, it was Paz on the phone who was asking me to keep him here. And now you’re basically asking me the same thing,” Omera pointed out.

“That’s a problem?”

“No, it’s just…interesting. I seem destined to _prevent_ him from leaving,” she realized.

“Probably a sign or something. Like karma or…what’s that other one? Chaos theory?”

“Chaos, yeah, that’s a good word for it. Thank you so much for your precious help,” she snickered.

“You’re welcome. But hey, in all seriousness, everything is okay, right? He’s been weird this morning but that’s it?” Cara made sure.

Omera smiled, thinking of his refreshing easiness with Winta and complete devotion to his kid. His casual, and not so casual glances for her. His few but meaningful words. His awkward nature when he knew he was being observed and his grace when he didn’t. His kindness. Always, kindness.

“It’s been great. Winta and me love having him and his kid here. He just… I know you’re gonna laugh, but please don’t. He just _fits_ ,” she disclosed, glad that she was comfortable enough with Cara to admit such a thing on the phone.

“I’m not laughing. I’m actually very glad. But remember…”

“Yeah, yeah, ‘don’t jump his bones’,” she interrupted her, trying to make light of the situation.

“Not just yet, no. At least, I don’t think it’s a good idea. But you know, you can still have some fun with him. I mean, you’re allowed to be creative to find ways to keep him here for a few more days.”

“Cara!”

“What? I didn’t say anything. It’s _your_ mind that went straight to the gutter, there. But really, though, call me if there’s anything or if he’s still weird, okay?” she added.

Omera nodded even though she couldn’t see her, and they said their goodbyes. That…had been a lot of information at once. She needed to have some kind of strategy with Din, but it had to look natural. Well, she’d figure something out.

He was indeed still ‘weird’ when he came back, but a different kind of weird. If she didn’t know any better, she would have been tempted to think that he’d stopped at a bar somewhere on the way to have a few drinks. Din was being…goofy. There was no other word for it. Omera guessed it was his way of relieving stress, or whatever other pent up emotion he’d accumulated. Still, it wasn’t something she had expected to see, but she managed to keep a straight face – Winta didn’t seem to think there was anything wrong with him making his kid roar with laughter after all. And honestly, it was a welcome, if unexpected sight. It didn’t get much better than this, after all, and his warm stare in her direction made her realize that perhaps following Cara’s directions might be a little harder than she had anticipated.

Din didn’t relinquish his son for the remaining hours of the day, and involved Winta in an impromptu game of hide and seek. The boy was good at hiding for his age, and took the game seriously. When his turn came to count though, Din looked a bit sheepish.

“What? He doesn’t know how to count?” surmised Winta. “That’s okay, he’s two, he can say what he wants.”

“No, it’s not that, you’ll see,” he told her, hiding in a spot he knew his boy would find without too much trouble.

Omera stayed on the sofa, curious now, and listened.

“One, two, three, _cuatro_ , _cinco_ , _seis_ , seven, nine… Coming!” Santi announced in his halting little voice, squealing happily when he found his dad quickly, then spending more time looking for Winta.

“It’s cute, it’s almost all there, impressive for his age!” praised Omera, seeing the dejection on his face.

“Almost there? There’s no ‘eight’ or ‘ten’, and half of it is in Spanish! I keep repeating it correctly to him. Only in English for now. All the time. It’s just not getting in!” Din lamented.

Omera wanted to laugh, but she knew he was actually quite touchy on some subjects, especially when it came to him thinking he was lacking as a father.

“You said it yourself: there are some words he simply finds easier to say in Spanish, he still knows them in the right order,” she hedged.

“How is ‘ _cuatro_ ’ in any way easier to say than ‘four’?”

“Words are like music for kids at that age. Sometimes they remember a word because they like the sound it makes, that’s all. There’s no deeper mystery.”

“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that…” he admitted. “It _does_ make sense. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” she replied.

He didn’t look so much out of his depth now but rather wistful. Omera didn’t have time to wonder why that was, as a cheerful ‘Ah!’ told them Winta had been found.

To no one’s surprise, it proved incredibly difficult to put Santi to bed that night, and Din had the decency to look a bit guilty about it. Even Winta had gone to bed before the boy, who kept asking to be picked up again anytime his father thought he was finally sleepy enough. This was trials and errors, Omera knew, and she’d only give him some pointers if he asked, which he hadn’t yet. In his defense, she thought he was doing all right – it _was_ difficult to resist pleas for ‘more stories’ or ‘more hugs’. And she could imagine it was doubly difficult when Din couldn’t be sure when the next time he’d be allowed to have his kid would be. Their time together was cruelly limited. Which was why she said nothing when she found the both of them in the living room long after she’d gone to wish Winta good night.

“I think he’s almost asleep,” he whispered.

Din was lying on the sofa, his socked feet against the armrest, and his boy resting on his chest. She could see Santi’s small eyes blinking slower and slower, and she was pretty sure he was right. Still, she knew better than to make any sudden noise or movement, so she sat in the armchair and observed them quietly. She was once more tempted to think that it couldn’t get any better than this. This was peace, warmth and domesticity in their purest forms. A father trying to get his son to sleep. Not very well, but doing his best.

“I deserved this, right?” he asked quietly, but the smile unmistakable in his voice, as he kept on stroking Santi’s back slowly.

“Kind of, yeah,” she agreed in a similar tone.

“I know I shouldn’t get him so hyper before bed, I just can’t resist sometimes. I just want to hear him laugh more.”

“He’s a happy kid, Din. You don’t have to worry about that.”

“Yeah, maybe it’s just me, then,” he admitted. “Maybe I just need to hear that sound more.”

Omera wondered if having his son on his chest was forcing him to be more open. He was incredibly exposed in this position, after all. Yet somehow invincible.

“It’s probably one of the nicest sounds on earth,” she offered.

“It really is,” he agreed. “I had no idea.”

“Get used to it, it’s not a feeling that’s going to leave you.”

“I’m glad,” he intoned, just as Santi’s eyes finally closed completely.

He kept his strokes slow and easy on his back and Omera couldn’t look away.

“Don’t get up just yet,” she warned, part of her only wanting to make this last a little longer.

Din nodded and stayed put – he didn’t seem to want to go anywhere either. He’d happily spend the night like that she could tell, and she wondered if he’d done something similar in the past. That wouldn’t surprise her.

“Are you okay?” she asked before she could think too much about it. She wanted him to talk about today, but it all boiled down to this simple question in the end. He seemed to understand the depth of her sentiment in the simple words though, as he took his time to answer.

“Better,” he admitted. “Sorry if I seemed a bit out of sorts. And thanks again for looking after Santi, today.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ve actually been enjoying myself. I forgot how precious they were at that age.”

“Except when they don’t want to go to sleep,” he added, his movements on Santi’s back still careful. But the boy was well and truly asleep, his small intakes of breath rhythmical and slow in the silence of the room.

“Small price to pay.”

“Yeah,” Din agreed. “Let’s do a quiet day, tomorrow. I won’t disappear again. I mean, if you’re okay with us staying one more day,” he quickly added.

“Of course,” she easily replied – one more day, that was something at least. She’d aim for more discreetly. “Go for a run again in the morning if you want. As I said, I don’t mind looking after him.”

Din nodded then frowned, no doubt remembering his state that morning.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” he asked her out of the blue.

“Ghosts?” she repeated, puzzled – that hadn’t been what she had expected.

“I don’t mean Scooby-Doo ghosts, obviously. But…souls, I guess, staying behind, not letting you go.”

“I grew up with stories of ghosts,” Omera replied after a while. “My grand-mother immigrated from East Africa. I never knew her, but my mother loved sharing the tales she had learned from her. My father still lives not too far from here, up north on the Quinault Reservation. He wasn’t as good a story teller, but his culture imbued everything he did. No matter what you believe in the end, I think ghosts are just part of life. It’s learning to live with them that can be difficult,” she concluded, wondering if that had in any way answered his question.

“Did you grow up on the reservation?” he asked, his hands finally still on Santi’s back.

“No, my father retired there after my mother’s death,” she told him, her words coming more easily than she had thought. “We moved around a lot when I was a kid. Both my parents loved the idea of starting again somewhere new every four or five years. But when she died… It broke his heart, there’s no other word for it. My brother has always been closer to him, so he sees him more often than I do, but I try to go when I can.”

“What does your brother do?”

“He teaches First Nations and Indigenous Studies at UBC in Vancouver. He’s always taken that part of our culture more seriously than me. I’m kind of a disappointment to him, so I _try_ not to see him too often,” Omera quipped.

“That bad?”

“We have a difficult relationship,” she admitted. “I was closer to our mom, he’s closer to our dad, these things happen,” she shrugged. That conversation had completely gotten away from her, but she guessed she owed him something given what she already knew about his past.

“What about those ghosts, then?” she pressed, a bit more sharply than she intended. “Why were you asking about them?”

Din half-smiled. He’d been enjoying this tangent, she could tell – that had delayed his own revelations, and she softened slightly, regretting her tone.

“I guess I’ve been chasing after a few of them, today. I wasn’t very successful,” he started with, looking sheepish.

“Why were you chasing after them in the first place?” she asked, hoping he would stay committed to telling the truth.

“When I went running this morning, I could almost see the place. Where Gideon…died.”

“You said ‘ghosts’, plural. Who were the others? The man who shot Cara?”

“No, I didn’t care one bit for that man, I’d never met him before,” he refuted coldly.

“But Gideon you knew well?” she pushed, trying to understand.

“Kind of… More than I thought, in any case.”

This was like pulling teeth, and she wasn’t sure she should push him anymore. His eyes looked distant, and he’d started stroking Santi’s back again – she wasn’t even sure he was aware of it.

“You see, Moff Gideon, he…” Din tried again, then stopped. Omera realized the movement was calming him, it was a reflex, almost. “He felt the need to brag. Say stuff to my face. Like my name, my real name. I hadn’t heard it for more than thirty years when he said it. Which was how I knew, before he revealed it…”

Omera had a sudden feeling of foreboding. She could almost guess what he was about to say and wanted to stop him. Pretend that it had never happened. Because he wouldn’t be able to take back those words afterwards, not ever. And she didn’t want that for him. Or for her either, selfishly. She was no longer sure she really wanted to know. Not if it meant causing such pain.

“On that day… The _other_ bad day, my parents told me to hide in the cupboard upstairs. I was seven, I did what they asked without asking questions. I didn’t understand it then, but the man who came to the house was here to kill all of us. Except he didn’t find me. That’s the only way he would have known my name.”

“Moff Gideon killed your parents,” she said the words for him, sparing him that, at least.

He nodded, and looked at the little boy on his chest, his hands now framing his curly head, as if he wanted to block his ears.

“And the little one’s, too,” he added in a voice that almost wasn’t there. “His parents were rival gang members who tried, and failed, getting out.”

“And so you killed him,” she concluded.

“And so I killed him,” he repeated, his voice stronger.

“That’s a lot of ghosts…” she managed to say after a while, forcing the words out.

“Yeah,” Din agreed, his eyes still fixed on Santi, who hadn’t moved an inch since they’d started talking, his respiration slow and even.

“I couldn’t make sense of your account yesterday. I could tell you were leaving some stuff out and… I understand why, now. Thank you for sharing that with me,” Omera told him, even if part of her still wished she was none the wiser.

It explained everything, of course it did, but at what cost? How could she hope to bring any comfort to a man who had lost so much? How could she find the right words? This was her being selfish again, she knew, but how could you possibly fix something that seemed so broken?

And yet when he looked at her, she thought she had the start of an answer – Din wasn’t broken. Damaged, yes, like Cara had said. But not broken. She was applying principles to something that wasn’t there, because that was how she _expected_ anyone in his situation to be. But as trite as it sounded, the man smiling gently at her now _wasn’t_ anyone. He’d been through hell, made dubious choices in his life, most of them forced upon him by others, and yet, despite all that, he had served his country for two decades and decided to adopt a little boy whose parents he’d been taught to see as enemies. He was the opposite of broken. He was the strongest man she’d ever met.

“Thank you for listening. And for not being too judgmental…” he said, his surprising smile still there.

“Judgmental? How could I be judgmental?” she wondered in disbelief, her eyes brimming with tears – she hadn’t even noticed them, and she tried blinking them away discreetly. Yet here he was, still smiling serenely, hugging the boy to his chest.

“Not that many people would be okay with letting murderers into their homes. Share meals with them. Let them play with their kids. Give them time to heal from a wound obtained while killing another human being,” he listed, pensive.

“Well, you _did_ help Winta with her math homework,” she noted, coming to grips with her emotions.

He grinned, and would have laughed harder if he didn’t have a sleeping baby on his chest.

“You’re not leaving this place until you go through the pile of exercises she has to do during the holidays together.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he agreed.

“And I need help figuring out where the leak is coming from on the roof, you can do that too if you feel you haven’t _redeemed_ yourself enough,” she joked.

“Sure,” he accepted easily.

“Din, I was kidding,” she replied, frowning.

“Well, I’m not,” looking at her seriously. “I don’t mind, and it’s another small price to pay, just let me know how I can help.”

“I don’t _need_ help taking care of my house,” she protested.

“I’m not saying you do,” he placated her. “I’m just saying I _want_ to help.”

She was reminded of the first time she met him – when he’d tried to persuade her he didn’t need her help dealing with his stabbing wound. In the end, she’d won. She had _wanted_ to help, too. And it had been a ridiculous discussion even then. So she caved, trying not to feel guilty that she was using him for chores, especially when she was perfectly capable of handling them on her own. Omera prided herself for her independence and hadn’t needed a _man_ to help out in years. Most of her problems had been caused by a man, after all. Her own husband, whom she had loved dearly until the very end, but who had unwittingly made sure she’d have trouble trusting anyone else again.

“Well, we don’t need to go up on the roof just yet,” she relented.

“No,” he confirmed. “Let’s wait for daylight. I need to put the little one to bed and learn some stuff for work.”

“Oh, you have homework too?” she quipped, as they both slowly stood up, Din extra careful of the small weight he was carrying.

“Yes, and it should put me to sleep a lot faster than Santi. I’ll try reading protocols to him next time…” he mumbled.

They wished each other goodnight at the top of the stairs, and went their separate ways. Omera sat on her bed and didn’t move for several long minutes. The tears came again and she let them run freely on her cheeks this time. When she finally managed to fall sleep, she dreamed of her mother, which hadn’t happened in years.

The whole household was a bit groggy the next morning, and Din forego his run. Omera wondered if it was him taking a (deserved) break from exercising, or if there was a deeper reason, such as not wanting to visit the beach again, and risk bringing back unwanted memories. Hoping she wasn’t overstepping her bounds, she suggested they all went for a walk there after lunch – it was sunny for once, and the kids would relish the fresh air. Din didn’t appear troubled by her idea and they all bundled up.

“I guess the quiet day is over,” he noted once they’d arrived, looking at Winta chasing after Santi on the sand. She was making the most of this outing, as her mother had announced her she’d have to do school work afterwards.

“He didn’t have his nap yet – that’s when you want to tire him out,” she replied.

“Good strategy,” he agreed, watching him try to copy Winta, who was skipping stones now.

“Look, dada!” the boy asked, turning towards him.

“I’m looking, Santi,” he promised.

They stayed until the kids’ cheeks were bright red, and slowly made their way back to the house. Santi unsurprisingly requested to be carried on his father’s shoulders and Winta brightened slightly when he announced he’d help out with her math homework once the boy was napping.

“ _Santi, para, me haces daño_ ,” he told the boy at one point, once they could see the house again through the trees. The little one grumbled but Din didn’t have to say anything else.

“What’s happening?” asked Omera with a smile, guessing what the problem was.

“He’s pulling my hair, he wants to be put down, but we’re almost there.”

“Your hair is shorter than in July,” she commented.

“Yeah, I tried to make myself presentable for job interviews,” he quipped.

“It suits you better when it’s a bit longer,” she told him before she could stop herself – it was true, after all.

“I prefer it longer too actually, but with Santi pulling it all the time, I’m tempted to go even shorter.”

“Don’t do that!” she interrupted him, horrified.

“Don’t worry, I won’t,” he replied laughing. “I had enough buzz cuts for a life time.”

Despite the hair pulling, the little one didn’t protest being put down for his nap, and they all sat in the living room afterwards: Din with his security protocols, Winta with her homework and Omera with a book. Her daughter didn’t have that much to do, but she had been putting it off for a while now, and could be heard grumbling at various intervals. She was studious and usually didn’t require a lot of help, so Omera couldn’t be absolutely sure she actually needed Din for her calculus problems or if it was just an excuse to ask him more questions. In any case, he seemed happy to forego his worryingly thick book when she asked for his input. Win-win situation for the both of them, then.

Din had left the guest bedroom’s door open and despite his immersion in helping Winta, he was the first to hear and recognize his son’s cries when they came. Softly at first, then more pronounced, and Omera stood up to signify she’d go. Din nodded in appreciation, and she felt a pang of something when she looked back at him and her daughter from the bottom of the stairs. At first she thought it was sadness that Winta’s father had never gotten to experience this. But she quickly realized that wasn’t it – it was her wishing this domestic interlude would last longer. She tried not to feel guilt at her late husband’s easy dismissal from her mind.

Santi didn’t seem too upset that it was her and not his father greeting him from his nap. From his half-opened eyes and faint frown, she surmised that an extra hour of sleep wouldn’t have gone amiss, but that he didn’t want to be kept away from any more of the action of the day. Still, Omera took her time talking to him and changing him slowly and quietly, which earned her an extra cuddly baby. She did a cursory look around the room while Santi was happily playing with her hair – she didn’t intend to snoop, Din was a guest in her home after all, but he seemed to be extremely neat. The bed was impeccably made, there were no clothes lying around and everything was in its place. A concession had been granted for the boy, though – there were a few toys in the corner of the room, where she imagined Din let his son play when they were on their own. And that was the direction he pointed her to, wishing for a bit more quiet before they rejoined the others downstairs, it seemed.

“Let’s play for a bit and take our time waking up properly,” she agreed easily, enjoying that it was just the two of them for a little while. Co-parenting certainly had its appeal – she didn’t think she was imagining things when she thought that Din also appreciated the time he was spending with her daughter on his own.

“Puzzle,” Santi pointed as they sat down, indicating what he wanted to play with first.

“Yes, it’s a puzzle all right,” Omera replied, although she wasn’t talking about the same thing as the child.

The kids were allowed a film after dinner, which Din ended up choosing when he saw their small collection of DVDs.

“I had no idea there was a follow-up to _The Rescuers_ ,” he told them seriously, holding the box for _The Rescuers Down Under_ as if he’d just been handed a precious gift.

“Indeed,” Omera confirmed, trying not to laugh.

“We saw the first one in Bolinas last week. Santi fell asleep halfway through and we watched the rest the next day, but maybe he’d like this one too,” he continued.

Again, she simply nodded and didn’t judge him. He’d praised her for not being judgmental after all, she couldn’t start questioning his tastes in Disney movies.

“Sorry, it’s probably a bit young for you Winta, is that okay?” Din asked, as she was putting on the film.

“It’s perfect, I haven’t seen it in a long time, and it will be fun for Santi,” she replied, making herself comfortable on the couch – her devotion for the little boy was precious.

Din sat next to her, his son on his lap. Omera intended to read at first, but she eventually sat on Winta’s other side.

“I saw the first one at the cinema with my parents. I remember really liking it, that’s why I wanted Santi to see it, too. I know he’s a bit young and you’re not supposed to put them in front of screens but…”

“You don’t do that very often,” she remarked.

“No, I don’t even have a TV at home. I’ll have to buy one, sometime,” he replied.

“What were the other films that you liked when you were a kid?” Winta asked after a while – Omera had also been tempted to say something, as it was the first time he spoke of his childhood in a positive way.

“Oh, a lot… We’d go almost every weekend. There was a movie theater close to our place. I was older than Santi and didn’t see as many after my parents died, but I’ll take him too, in a couple of years. It makes for nice memories.”

“Yeah,” Winta agreed. “We go sometimes with mom. I like it.”

Omera made a mental note to herself to take her daughter to the movies more often.

“So, which films?” she insisted, and Din smiled, the little boy on his lap still absorbed by the images even though they were talking over the dialogues.

“I liked the old Disney animations, like _The Sword in the Stone_ or _Robin Hood_. But we also saw some films, like the first _Back to the Future_ or _Explorers_ or _Ladyhawke_.”

“I don’t know those films,” Winta admitted.

“You don’t know _Back to the Future_?” he marveled, and Winta looked apologetic. “That’s okay,” he quickly replied. “We can watch it sometime, it’s not too scary for Santi, even.”

Omera tried not to focus on the ‘we’ in his sentence, but it was hard not to, especially when they were all together sitting on the sofa. Feeling a bit overwhelmed, she stood up slowly, went to the kitchen, breathed in calmly, and came back with two beers. Din gladly accepted the one she handed him, and she went back to the armchair to try to read. But she’d still raise her eyes from her book every so often, watching the trio enjoying this moment together, even if Santi fell asleep halfway through as predicted, and Winta kept asking unrelated questions. It would be dangerous getting used to this, she thought.

She offered Din another beer once the kids were in bed – no drama that night – and they settled down in their respective spots, in a way that made her think it could easily become a habit.

“So I guess we’ll check the roof tomorrow,” she said with an easy smile.

“Shit, sorry,” Din replied quickly, looking chagrined.

“That’s fine, it can wait, and Winta’s homework was more important.”

“If you’re sure it’s okay if we stay one more day…”

“Yes,” she interrupted firmly, “it’s nice having you here, don’t fret so much.”

That was one more day, Cara would be proud of her. Even if she couldn’t boast for any creativity – she was basically holding him hostage over some housework.

“And tomorrow’s New Year’s Eve,” she added.

“Already?” he gaped. “And you didn’t have anything… I mean, we won’t be keeping you from any plans?”

“Raymond isn’t really the kind of place for a NYE party, trust me. For the last few years, it’s just been me and Winta playing board games until midnight, nothing fancy.”

“I’ll cook something,” he vowed.

“Are you sure?” she asked, grinning.

“Yes, I’ll go do some shopping tomorrow and cook something,” Din promised. “Don’t dis my cooking until you tried it,” he added, seeing the doubt in her eyes. She raised her arms in mock surrender.

“It’s about time I helped out a bit.”

“Yes, your lack of assistance in chores has been duly noted,” she deadpanned, and for once he seemed to understand she was joking and only sighed.

“New Year’s Eve…” he marveled again. “That means just three more days.”

It didn’t take her long to realize that it meant three more days with Santi, and she wondered what she could say.

“Sorry, I’m being maudlin again,” he quickly dismissed with a shake of his head, taking a sip of his beer and looking away.

Omera tried imagining what it would be like having to relinquish one’s child to social services. It made her sick just thinking about it. Being separated for an unknown number of days.

“I’ll have work to focus on, so that’s good,” he said – either to himself or to her, she wasn’t sure. “It’s been great having him for the holidays but it’ll be different, obviously, when I have a flight schedule.”

“Did you find a nursery for him when that happens? When you’ll have him for good?” she asked, trying to steer the conversation in a more positive direction.

“Yeah, I did actually. They have something for airport and airline staff at Sea-Tac. Even a kindergarten for later. They can watch over your kid when your flight is delayed, that kind of things.”

“That sounds ideal,” she confirmed.

“It’s just going to be weird for a little while. I’ve gotten used to…you know, have him there with me, read him stories, teach him new words, it’s been…”

But she could see he wouldn’t be able to find the right word, it was too painful, and he drank some more beer instead. Omera stayed silent while he composed himself, his eyes staring at the wall.

“I think that’s why we’ve been overstaying our welcome here…” he started again.

“But you haven’t!” she quickly interrupted him.

“What I mean is… It’s easier when there’s more people around. If it was just Santi and me at home feeling a bit down, I think I’d make stupid decisions.”

“Like what?”

“Like looking for a place where we could both disappear,” he admitted.

“I’d probably be tempted too, in your shoes. Don’t feel bad. That only shows how much you love him,” Omera replied after a pause. His shoulders drooped, and she surmised that wasn’t a word he heard often.

“That’s what it’s all about in the end, though. You can only try and do your best for your children. The rest is…not important,” she added.

“So you’re saying I should book tickets for Vanuatu or something?” he joked half-heartily.

“I’m saying, it’s okay to worry. And it’s okay to feel down. But isn’t your lawyer optimistic? Didn’t you say that adoption could take a long time, but you could still be Santi’s legal guardian in the meantime? As a foster parent?”

“On paper, yes. But this fostering thing is so frustrating. Every time I feel like we’re making progress, something else comes up. Like a different judge or some invisible loops I have to jump through with endless paperwork. But my lawyer’s been great, you should meet him, he’s a lot of fun.”

“Cara said he was…interesting,” she replied, choosing not to repeat the word Cara had used. From Din’s reaction, she could tell he already knew.

“He _is_ that. And he’s only asking to be paid in flying lessons, which is nice of him.”

She hummed in reply, imagining quite well how high lawyer’s fees could be. Din had never mentioned money issues to her, and probably never would, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out it had probably been a big problem for him until very recently. His clothes were well worn and unremarkable, the car belonged to his friend Paz and his apartment, from his own admission, was very small. And yet he didn’t seem to spare expenses when it came to Santi, who was always dressed in well fitting, new looking clothes, and had plenty of books and toys. She didn’t know exactly how much a commercial airline pilot made, even one who was just starting, but she expected it would be a tremendous change for him.

“Winta has been asking me when she’d be allowed to go on a plane with you,” she informed him and his eyes widened.

“I haven’t made any promises to her if you’re…”

“I know,” she cut in. “But I’m pretty sure it’s something she’d enjoy too, one day.”

“Of course, I’d be happy to take her,” he confirmed.

“And thanks again for your help with her math homework. She’s at that age where it’s getting a bit more difficult, but still not exactly like I remember it from med school. I’m starting to have a hard time explaining it to her in simple terms, because I expect her to know other stuff,” she admitted, sipping her beer at intervals. She wasn’t sure Din understood what she meant, though. It was a source of frustration for her, not being able to help her own kid with things that should be easy.

“That’s okay, I like math. There’s not a lot of things that I like explaining, but it’s one of those things because it’s just…logical to me.”

“Lucky you,” she smiled.

“I don’t mean to brag, it’s just something that comes easily. Trust me, that’s about the only thing that does, in my life,” he disclosed, and she resisted not pushing him a bit more.

In the end, he was the one pushing her.

“Med school? What happened?” he asked.

Well, she could only blame herself, she’d been the one mentioning it in the first place.

“I started med school, yes. The first three years. Then Winta came along. We hadn’t really planned it, but I felt that the best thing to do at the time was dropping out. So that’s what I did. And I don’t regret it at all, it’s been great being there for her,” she quickly related. He didn’t need to know all the details, after all.

“Did you think about starting again?” he wondered, making himself more comfortable on the couch.

“Yeah, I did. But I didn’t want to miss too much of Winta’s childhood with my studies, so I enrolled in nursing school when she was three. Some of my credits were still valid, and it felt like the right thing for me at the time,” she continued, then took a deep breath. “And then… And then Winta’s father got into a stupid car accident, and he died. And suddenly there was no money and… Well, you know the rest. I have some responsibility at the drug store and I can use what I learned. It’s not much, but I like it, and the pay is decent,” she shrugged.

“And now?” Din still pressed.

“What do you mean, now?” she frowned.

“Well, Winta’s older. You never thought about giving it another go?”

“Med school?” she chuckled, wondering why he would be joking about this.

“Or nursing school,” he added, looking completely serious and unbothered. “It’s not too late.”

“How old do you think I am?” she asked with a forced grin. “I mean I’m flattered, but…”

“That’s not an age thing, and of course you’re still ‘young enough’, whatever that means. It’s just a…finding out what you want to do with your life, thing,” he reasoned, as if his words could at any point make sense to her.

“I _like_ my job,” Omera intoned, louder than she’d meant.

“Well, good then,” Din replied placatingly. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m sorry if I sounded patronizing, it’s just that… I mean, I know our situations are different and you have Winta and everything. But… It’s never too late if you want to change things. And it took me a while to realize it.”

Omera stayed silent, wondering if she had indeed thought he was patronizing – but he hadn’t. That was him sharing his experience with her. If she was feeling uncomfortable, she couldn’t imagine how much it had cost him to voice his opinion.

“It was a painful awakening, trust me,” he continued, seeing as she wouldn’t interrupt. “But I don’t regret it. So if you have doubts, any doubts at all, it’s okay. It just means you’re asking yourself the right questions.”

She had trouble finding sleep again that night. But this time, it wasn’t because she was plagued with strange dreams about her mother. Or imagining what Din had gone through as a child. His words had resounded with her in a way she hadn’t expected.

The next day was filled with more exciting activities. Din went for a run – it seemed that her idea to go to the beach the previous day to break the spell had worked – then shopping for whatever he had planned for dinner, and then shortly after lunch when Santi was asleep and Winta busy with the last of her homework, they went to the attic. The skylight up there was the only way to access the roof from the inside, and she dreaded the experience. But Din had been adamant, mentioning the subject several times during the day so that they wouldn’t forget.

“Din, come on, surely a professional should come, it’s too dangerous. What if you fall?” she pressed, seeing him climb out and look for purchase.

“Why would I fall?” he asked rhetorically, and she grumbled. She wasn’t sure she wanted to watch.

“Are you sure you’re okay with heights?” she parried back.

“I’m a pilot,” he reminded her. “I live for heights.”

She had no more arguments and tried not to grimace as she saw him slowly make his way up the side of the roof.

“Oh, but if I _do_ fall,” he told her mock seriously, turning back to look at her. “You’ll take care of the kid, right?”

“Din!” she exclaimed loudly, not liking his sense of humor one bit.

But he carried on with a carefree smile, and she had to admit that he seemed to know what he was doing. He made it look easy and she felt more relaxed after a few minutes. He quickly found out what was wrong – displaced tiles – and it only took him about half an hour to fix the problem. So maybe it _was_ nice to have a man around sometimes. And the proud look on his face when it was done didn’t bother her. Not for a second. It made his brown eyes shine and his whole face crinkle with joy. All in all, a small price to pay indeed.

She told him afterwards as he was closing the window what her husband had planned for the attic – a large open space to see the ocean from. But he’d never gotten around insulating the room or changing the floorboards.

“He was an architect, and this was his dream house. But after his death… I just focused on keeping the roof up and pay the bills, and that was hard enough.”

“You mentioned that he’d taken loans?” he asked, and she was pleasantly surprised that he remembered their conversation.

“Yes, his other construction sites weren’t going so well either. But he’d never said a thing. I don’t know if it was him being proud, or thinking a woman wouldn’t understand, or if he didn’t want to admit he had failed…”

“Probably a bit of everything,” Din surmised, raising his shoulders.

“Yeah, probably,” she agreed. “But we unfortunately live in a country where they can put you in jail and take your kid away when you can’t pay back the money you owe, so…”

She stayed silent, and Din looked at his feet, then back towards her, offering her whatever warmth he could with his eyes. This was something he could empathize with, and she felt acknowledged.

“So I managed to pay off the loans, but it took a while, some begging, and family members either feeling sorry for myself or disappointed in my choices. I’m not sure what’s worse, out of the two. At least now thanks to you the roof is fixed, and I can focus on other things.”

“Like what?” he asked, frowning.

Oh, she should have kept her mouth shut, she realized, as she took him to the garage wordlessly, and opened the fuse box at his request.

“Apparently, this does not meet current safety standards,” she announced.

“Not by a decade, no,” he agreed.

“You know fuse boxes?”

“I know enough to tell you that. And that it’s a fire hazard. A bad one.”

“Yeah, the guy said that.”

“What guy?”

“The electrician who came last time when we lost power for two days.”

“Two days?” he repeated, astonished.

“He said it was pretty bad.”

“It is,” he concurred.

“And that it would cost me about 10K to have a new one installed and redo the outdated wiring in the whole house.”

He whistled and she wondered why she’d bothered telling him all that.

“I’ll figure it out,” she shrugged. And she knew she would, she always had. It would just take a bit of time, like everything else.

“Do you have thunderstorms around here?” he asked.

“Only in the summer sometimes, but it’s pretty rare. Why?”

“Because this could definitely catch fire, you know.”

“You’re just as bad as that guy,” Omera grumbled – she’d hoped he’d be more helpful. Supportive, at least.

“I’m just saying. You should get that fixed before summer,” Din pressed, looking serious.

“That doesn’t give me a lot of time to get the money.”

“For 10K, sure, I agree. But with second-hand material I don’t think you’d need more than 4 or 5.”

“Since when are you an electrician? Are all pilots also electricians?” she bantered.

“No, but I studied electrical engineering, remember? And I set up a few of our places.”

“ _Our_?”

“Huh, for the gang,” he mumbled. “That was one of my self-dedicated tasks. Meant I could stay off the streets for a while.”

“You’re saying you could fix this?” Omera asked, eyebrows raised in wonder.

“Sure.”

“On your own?”

“Well, I could use some help from you,” he shrugged. “But there’s no heavy lifting involved. Just a lot of boring wiring. And you’d need to ask for the approval of your electricity provider. But that’s usually not a problem.”

 _Dammit_ , that was tempting.

“How long would it take?”

“If I can find the right equipment? I don’t know. I’d do it room by room. All in all, maybe a week. So… 3 or 4 weekends, I guess?” he assessed.

“You’d come here to do that during your weekends?”

“Well, I do have to work the rest of the week,” he quipped.

“Din, you don’t have to do that… Santi…”

“I don’t have Santi every weekend. Unfortunately,” he cut in, turning serious again. “So it would be nice to come, actually. If you and Winta would have me without him. And when I _do_ have him with me, well, it would be nice too, right? And Winta and him would play while we worked? I mean, it would be bad if the house burned down,” he concluded.

“You don’t say.”

They smiled at his abrupt wording, and still he looked hesitant. As if he’d feared he’d cornered her into letting him come back here. To work on her house, no less. _God_ , what would Cara say. That was bound to be perceived as enslavement, right? She’d basically used his misplaced guilt over not helping enough and feeling undeserving to make him suggest this. But hell, that was 5 or 6K less than she had anticipated. Why couldn’t he simply say that he wanted to come back to visit? Why did there need to be reason, as valid as this one was? But she was starting to understand the man a bit better, and of course he needed a reason. A _practical_ reason.

“Let’s talk about it some more,” she hedged, and they made their way back up. She didn’t miss the disappointment in his eyes, but she needed to speak to her daughter first – she’d made up her mind already, but it wasn’t just about her.

He cooked tacos that evening. Not Chilean, he admitted, but he missed the food so easily found in Los Angeles and it proved convenient to eat while playing board games. The meat was tender and spicy, the thinly sliced vegetables crisp and Winta probably ate her own weight in guacamole. He’d refused any help in the kitchen, which meant she wasn’t even sure how he’d done all of it. Probably him trying to find any possible reason to get invited again she thought, laughing. Audibly, apparently, because his eyes rose in her direction in question. The red wine _was_ Chilean, and very good.

Santi stayed with them for a while, eating and pretending to participate in their games – Din had been horribly worried the food would prove too spicy for him, but he breathed a visible sigh of relief when he asked for more. He shouldn’t have been scared – the boy ate just about anything. Around ten, he excused himself to put the little one to bed for a proper rest, as he’d been all but drooling over his shoulder for a while now, and Omera found herself alone with her daughter.

“Are you enjoying yourself? Did you like the food?” she asked. Din had gotten ice cream and non-alcoholic cider for her as well, and it seemed to have worked in his favor, as she nodded enthusiastically.

“I want to eat tacos every day, it’s _perfect_ , mom. It tastes _nothing_ like the ones at Taco Bell.”

“No,” she replied, agreeing wholeheartedly. “So you’ve been okay with Din and Santi being here? You don’t feel like we didn’t spend enough time together, just the two of us, for the last few days?” she checked, as this had been an ongoing worry – maybe she’d been taking things for granted. But her daughter shook her head, eyes wide.

“Of course not, it’s been wonderful! I love spending time with Santi, it’s so great seeing him grow up! He’s not really a baby anymore. He’s a little boy. It’s so interesting to see all the new stuff he does every day.”

“I know,” she said, marveling at Winta’s affection for the child anew. She would have been an amazing sister, and she felt bad for never having given her that opportunity. Even if she and her brother were now estranged, she had fond memories of all that they had shared as kids.

“And it’s been alright with Din too?” Omera added.

“Yes, he always has great stories! About when he was a soldier and a pilot. He’s funny in his own way. Like in a _serious_ way. And he doesn’t lie or treat me like a little kid. And he always answers all my questions,” she listed.

“Yes, I noticed that,” said Omera with a heavy look. “You tend to ask a lot of those.”

Winta rolled her eyes. “I don’t mean it like that! I mean he never looks at me like I shouldn’t be asking something. He never makes fun of me because I’m curious.”

Omera half-smiled at that – it had been a problem raised by her teachers. Winta just didn’t know when to stop, sometimes. And she’d noticed that Din would simply stop answering her questions when that was the case, but never rebuff her, sigh, complain, or make her feel silly.

“He’s very calm and patient,” Omera remarked, and Winta nodded.

“So you’d be okay with them coming more often? Like for some weekends?” Winta kept on nodding, her smile getting wider and wider. “It might just be Din on his own sometimes, though. But he said he’d bring Santi when he could,” she indicated.

“Mom, that would be so cool! And…he could make more tacos!” she beamed.

Well, you had to hand it to her, she wasn’t wrong there, and it was reassuring to see that she had her priorities straight.


	4. Pictures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for not posting an update in a while, I got caught up in non-AU stories, but I'm back now! Hoping you like this new installment.

The day was January the 11th, a Saturday, and Din had decided that it would be Santiago’s second birthday. It was a purely arbitrary decision for the simple reason that no one knew when the boy was born, exactly. And since he was lucky enough to have his son that particular weekend, then there was no better moment to celebrate his life.

“I’m pleased to finally meet you, little one,” said Kuiil, raising his coffee cup to the child, who was sitting on his father’s lap.

As the old lawyer was also visiting from Los Angeles, it was decided that both I.G. and him should join them at the pizzeria Din had selected to go to for lunch as a treat. What better day to appreciate his first slice of cheese goodness? And Santi had definitely enjoyed it, as his full tummy could attest to.

Kuiil seemed frailer than usual, and had needed the younger lawyer’s help to sit in the booth, but his eyes still shone with undisguised intelligence and he was quick to answer any question Din threw at him. The Los Angeles District Attorney had dropped the charges against him, and thanks to his FBI granted immunity, Din was free of any further prosecution, something his father’s old colleague had made sure of.

“I’m just disappointed that we are never going to be able to prove that Moff Gideon killed your parents,” rasped Kuiil. “I would have loved nothing more than closing your dad’s case once and for all.”

“But we both know what happened,” argued Din, letting Santi wander towards I.G. “That has to be enough. It is enough for me, at least.”

The old man nodded sadly, and Din could tell that it would never be enough for him – he’d lived with the constant weight of not knowing what had happened to his assistant for so long that his feeling of injustice wouldn’t easily be cast aside. Din didn’t have such misgivings, as he’d been able to get his own kind of justice, albeit a different one than the lawyer would have wanted. _And probably his father as well_ , he realized with a pang of guilt.

“I am at least happy with how things turned out for you in the end,” Kuiil acknowledged. “I was afraid you’d suffer the consequences and I would have never forgiven myself…”

I.G. raised his eyes at that, and looked in Din’s direction with an expression that he couldn’t decipher. Almost like a warning, he thought. But before he could ponder the reaction some more, Santi distracted him, requesting to be held. Not for the first time, he wondered at their easy rapport. They saw each other regularly, given the tedious court proceedings and various meetings with DHS they all had to attend, and he’d expected the young lawyer to be his usual stilted, awkward self with the toddler, and his son to be guarded and careful as he was with strangers, but no. It seemed that the two had a way to communicate that was entirely theirs. One that Din had stopped trying to understand because he simply appreciated seeing them enjoying each other’s company. The fact that I.G. spoke to him in Spanish was probably a plus.

“Your dad would be so proud of you,” added the old man in the silence that followed, clutching his upper arm on the table. Din didn’t startle, but it was a close call, as he hadn’t expected the man’s touch, or the strength of his grip. “What you managed to make of your life despite everything…”

Din had to look away at those words, still not used to receiving any kind of praise, especially from someone who’d had such a close connection with his father. A man he barely remembered but whose silent judgement had always hung over his shoulders. He wasn’t sure he believed the lawyer’s words, but he didn’t share his doubts with him, as this wasn’t something he felt comfortable enough to discuss at the moment. Probably not ever, if he was being honest.

“There’s something I want to give you,” said Kuiil, removing his hand and allowing Din to breathe more easily again. “They kept items from your parents’ place as evidence, and obviously some of it got lost over the years, but by right what’s left is now yours.”

Din turned towards the old man again, curious now, but still guarded. He wasn’t sure seeing stuff that had once belonged to his parents would be a good thing or not.

“Taking anything out of evidence without due process is a felony,” pointed out I.G., but the bluntness of his words was somehow impaired by Santi’s repeating the word ‘chocolate’ for the hundredth time – the little tyke had _requested_ they all surrendered the sweet that had come with their coffees to his deserving self, and all but the younger lawyer had complied. Until now, apparently, as the man finally offered his to the child, who received it with a pleased coo, and proceeded to try and eat it without removing the foil and paper wrapping.

“Santi, _más despacio_ ,” reminded him Din, who mimed removing the wrapping with his hands. He eventually managed to do it with I.G.’s help, and the crisis was averted.

The two lawyers had been arguing over legal matters while he’d talked to the boy, and he didn’t catch much – he was getting used to having to ignore those tiresome conversations and only caught the end of it, relating to his inability to go to L.A. and claim the released evidence anyway. That was true enough – Din didn’t think the city would be safe for him for a while yet.

“Sorry, what were you saying?” he asked when the silence stretched for too long again, and didn’t see that Kuiil had been observing the scene quietly with an amused smile.

“That I had a gift for you, son. But maybe you should open it later.”

“Why, what is it?” inquired Din, worried now.

“It’s all the pictures that I managed to find. Your father liked taking them and I had the negatives and slides printed. I tried finding his old camera as well but unfortunately couldn’t,” he explained, and Din took in a deep breath again – this lunch was wreaking havoc on his nerves.

“You might want to take your time with them,” the lawyer added, handing him the plastic bag he’d come carrying and from which had also appeared a plush toy for Santi. _No shit_ , he thought.

Still, Din reflexively took the bag, and was struck by its weight: it was heavy. He spied a quick look inside, and saw that it held five or six large envelopes. Thankfully, he couldn’t see any pictures, as Kuiil had been right on one point – he definitely didn’t want to start looking through them here. It might even take him a few days to find the courage to do it.

“I didn’t look at them all, it didn’t seem fair. Some are from before your parents moved to the States, I think. But it’s your family, you get to have them and the memories they represent. And now it’s his family too,” he pointed out, nodding towards the kid who had managed to eat the chocolate without making too much of a mess.

Din sighed and said nothing. This was a painful point of contention he continued to have a hard time facing – on the one hand, he wanted to become Santi’s only family and stop having to share him with social services, but on the other, he couldn’t help feeling that he was tearing him away from his origins. He wanted to give the kid the best of both worlds – his own and the boy’s birth parents’ – but he had next to nothing of the latter, and he didn’t know much about the former either. Maybe those pictures would help, he thought. So he eventually thanked Kuiil for his gift.

“I’m really glad to have seen the both of you together,” the old man mentioned when they said their goodbyes outside, and Din felt I.G.’s heavy stare on him again. “He’s a great kid,” he declared eyeing the boy in his arms. Santi clutched his new bunny plush to his chest and gurgled in sleepy contentment – he was due a nap.

“And what you’re doing for him is wonderful.” This he directed at him, and he could tell that he wanted to add something more, maybe something about his parents again and how proud they would be, but thankfully he refrained from doing so, as he’d understood it made him uncomfortable.

“It’s all thanks to you and I.G.,” Din felt the need to point out. “I wouldn’t be here and we wouldn’t have been able to celebrate his birthday all together if it wasn’t for the two of you.”

Kuiil grumbled and I.G. stood up straighter in surprise – it seemed he wasn’t the only one who had trouble receiving praise.

“It’s the least we could do, son. Now go put this little one to sleep,” Kuiil advised.

Din nodded gratefully at the two men, hoping he had still been able to impart his gratitude to them, and he observed them walking slowly away as he placed a dozing Santi in his car seat. The old lawyer was leaning heavily against the younger, and they proceeded with careful steps.

As it turned out, it took Din a lot more than a few days to look through the pictures Kuiil had given him. He’d forgotten about them for the rest of the weekend as he was enjoying his time with Santi, and he had scheduled flights as first officer the following week, which required all his concentration. He’d certainly missed flying real airplanes after spending so much time in simulators, but he’d forgotten how focused it made him. Nothing else existed for a while, and a discarded plastic bag on his coffee table certainly didn’t grab his attention. But Cara was supposed to drop by for a beer on that particular Sunday evening, and he’d meant to tidy up the place. And now something other than flying had completely captivated him. So much so that he didn’t hear the buzzer at first.

“What’s wrong?” said Cara immediately when he eventually opened the door. Din hadn’t had the time to clear the pictures he had laid out on every available surface in the living room, and he now slightly regretted it, as he gestured her inside without a word.

“What’s all this?” she asked, looking at the mix of color and black and white photographs.

“Kuiil gave them to me last weekend,” he started explaining, standing beside her still form. “Pictures my father took, apparently. And which were lying around in evidence.”

“There’s…a lot of them,” she voiced, and he nodded.

He’d started ordering them – the black and whites from Chile showing friends, family members and places he had never seen, the sepia ones from their first few years in California, then the more recent ones in vivid colors depicting him as a baby then a child. His parents’ faces had started to blur in his mind over time, and seeing them so clearly now, he realized how young they had been – younger than he was now – and how much he looked like them, which Cara was also quick to point out.

“You look like your dad but you have your mother’s smile.”

“Kuiil said something to that effect, yes,” he agreed as he went to grab a couple of beers from the fridge. Cara still hadn’t moved, and kept on looking at the pictures. It should have made him feel uncomfortable, but in a way he was glad to be able to share them with someone else. It made them more real, in a way.

“You’ll be able to show them to Santi as well, it’s nice,” she pointed out, finally turning away from them and accepting the bottle he handed her.

“I guess,” Din replied, shrugging. He still hadn’t come up with a good solution.

“And you should take him to Chile one day. That’s where this is, right? It looks beautiful.”

Din nodded as he definitely agreed on that – he’d never _dared_ go before, but now that he had some closure over what had happened to his parents and with his life in a better place, he could contemplate the idea of making the journey.

“You think you still got family over there?” she asked, sitting down on the couch next to him.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Probably. But my parents left that place for a reason, I’m not sure I’m supposed to question that.”

“You are your own person. You could always look. Then decide if you want to meet them or not,” she reasoned.

Din shrugged again but silently agreed. If he didn’t owe it to his parents, maybe he owed it to Santi – if the boy was to remain deprived of his origins, then maybe it meant he had to share his as much as he could.

“It’s actually a weird coincidence, but I had something similar to give you,” started Cara, looking uncharacteristically unsure.

She handed him a picture – it was slightly blurry, part of it had been cropped out, and showed a young couple with a kid.

“I’m not 100% sure it’s them, but…”

“It’s them,” said Din. There was no doubt in his mind – he’d spent hours studying their mug shots, the only pictures he had of Santi’s birth parents but which he knew he could never show the kid – it was too cruel. But that had changed, now.

He stood up, and started searching for a particular portrait. One his father had probably taken with a timer. When he finally found it, he held the two pictures side by side and showed them to Cara.

“You _do_ look a bit alike,” she said, comparing the two babies held in their mothers’ arms.

“I’m glad I’ll have this picture to show him, where did you find it?” Din asked.

“It was in the phone of one of the gang members we grabbed. We didn’t have time to go through all of them until now.”

“Did he have anything to say about it?”

“You can probably guess,” sighed Cara. “He had no idea who those people were…”

“Big surprise,” Din deadpanned. But he knew it was a long stretch to assume anything useful could be gleaned from those men – he’d been one of them, after all. He knew how they were trained to respond to police interrogations.

“Show him both pictures,” Cara eventually suggested and Din nodded – yes, this he could do. He needed to buy frames. He’d never be able to recreate something like at Paz’s place in Bolinas – the man had a whole bookcase dedicated to pictures of friends and family – but he could certainly try. That had seemed to be his mentor’s intention as well in any case, as he had gifted him a few pictures from their time in the Air Force, already framed, for Christmas.

Cara couldn’t stay long – she was flying to Sacramento for a new case that very evening, but she still found the time to grill him about her new favorite subject – his relationship with Omera.

“So I heard you’re heading back there on some lame excuse? Fixing the electricity or something?” she asked, also requesting another beer. In her own words ‘neither of us is flying that plane to Sacramento, after all’, which was certainly true, as his next flights weren’t scheduled until Tuesday.

“It’s not a lame excuse,” he contended. “Her installation is really old, it’s a fire hazard.”

“When are you going back?” she continued, unfazed.

“I’m checking a second hand store a bouncer recommended. If I find the fuse box I’m looking for and some wiring, I might go next weekend. I’m supposed to have Santi then as well.”

“You’re using the boy as another excuse?”

“I’m not!” Din complained again. “It’s just nicer if he’s there.”

“Nicer for whom?”

“Well, Winta. And me too, obviously.”

“Right.”

“And Omera loves the kid.”

“Sure, but that doesn’t make it very easy.”

“Very easy for what?” he played dumb.

“You know what I’m talking about, right?”

“Yes Cara, you’re about as subtle as a brick in the face,” Din noted, and she had the decency not to laugh too hard.

“I’m just… I know you mean well, and I appreciate your encouragements, really. But I’m not… I like spending time with them, yes. Both Omera and Winta. And I’m looking forward to seeing them more regularly. Even better if I can have Santi with me because it’s nice for him as well to see other people, and they adore him.”

“But?”

“But for one, I feel weird talking about it with you, because I know Omera is your friend and you’re in contact.”

“It’s called texting, Din. You should try it,” Cara suggested half-seriously.

“And also maybe it would be better if Omera and I were just friends as well,” he admitted. “At least for now,” he added, because he’d be lying if he said he couldn’t envision more at a later stage.

“Better for whom?” she repeated, and Din sighed.

“Everything is still so new for me right now. This life. I’m not sure I’d be very good at adding anything more to it. It wouldn’t be fair to her if I can’t give her all the attention she deserves.”

“Listen to yourself! A real gentleman,” Cara praised, and he grumbled, drinking some of his beer to avoid saying any more embarrassing things.

“Seriously, though,” she started again. “I’m not saying you should jump into anything, least of all her bed, but don’t you think she might help you figuring things out with your new life?”

She did have a point, there. And she’d actually already helped him come to terms with some important aspects of his character. Being in her life, in her _and_ her daughter’s life certainly had its appeal. He’d never put much effort in the few relationships he’d had over the years, knowing they were doomed from the start because of who he was and what he did. Which was one more stress factor, he knew – he definitely didn’t want to mess this up. It already felt special and he wouldn’t be risking just his heart in the process this time. He was well aware how close Santi and Winta already seemed.

“And life’s better when there’s two of you, sometimes. Not every time, though,” she was quick to add, and he debated for several seconds if he should say anything.

“Heard from Paz, lately?” Din eventually settled on asking.

“Subtle…” she replied, but there was no animosity in her voice.

“Paz is God knows where, as usual. I think he’s shipping for Somalia for a couple of months.”

Din nodded, as he’d been told something similar.

“Could be worse, I guess…” she conceded.

“Yeah, could be Pakistan.”

“Right,” she agreed, looking a bit worried now, and he regretted bringing the subject up.

“Paz and I, it’s… It’s kind of an on again, off again thing. Mostly on, now. And I’m usually fine with us not seeing each other for a while. Hell, I _prefer_ it. But…”

“Yeah, I miss him too,” Din translated, and Cara nodded in gratitude for not having been forced to say what was on her mind.

“So what’s in Sacramento?” he asked, changing the subject.

“A new case,” Cara shrugged, drinking her beer. “Definitely not as interesting as yours, I’m a bit sad to see it go.”

“I’m _definitely_ not,” he quipped. “Do you know how long you’ll have to stay there?”

“Depends how it goes, but it might be a while,” she admitted.

“Well, we do have a regular Seattle-Sacramento flight on Fridays. If I’m in the roster, maybe we could grab a non-alcoholic beverage at the airport in between my two flights when you have the time?”

“That actually sounds nice,” she agreed with an easy smile. “Except for the non-alcoholic part.”

“Yeah well, I’m trying to keep this job, it’s nice.”

“Yeah? How’s your first week been, then?” she queried.

“A bit tiring, I have to say. We flew to Phoenix, Dallas and Chicago.”

“I thought you were only flying short hauls? Dallas is like…”

“Four hours, not that bad. Chicago is the same. With a couple of hours between the two flights, which is the worse – I’d rather fly 8 hours straight,” Din admitted.

“Aren’t you supposed to take it easy as co-pilot, or whatever it’s called?”

“First officer. Yes, but I did say I’d fly as much as possible before Santi is in my life for good. And they like having me virtually always available.”

“They’re gonna use you to the bone if you’re not careful,” she warned, her tone surprisingly serious. “No point killing yourself before you get the kid.”

“I know, I’ll be careful. But the only way to become Captain is through seniority, and I already have accrued more flying hours than most of the other pilots, thanks to the Air Force.”

“Isn’t that weird? Having more experience but being second in command?”

“Not really,” he shrugged. “And I don’t mind. I still have a lot to learn about commercial flying. Like communicating with the rest of the crew and the passengers.”

“Oh yeah, I can imagine you being _real_ comfortable with that,” she laughed, using her beer bottle as a makeshift mike. “ _Ladies and gentlemen, we are arriving at Seattle-Tacoma airport, please don’t thank me on the way out, as I won’t have any idea how to respond._ ”

“Funny,” he replied, but she wasn’t _that_ off the mark – he found those conversations excruciating, while most senior Captains absolutely loved talking to the passengers, even inserting small jokes in their speeches. He definitely missed the Air Force then.

“But really,” he added once she had stopped miming his awkward self, greeting passengers as they were making their way out the plane and laughing herself silly in the process. “I just like having a new challenge. See how much I can push myself. And the company, obviously. They do have strict flying hours I’m not supposed to go over. And for good reasons.”

“Look at you, already rebelling against the authority. No wonder you pissed off the brass in the military.”

“Relax, I’m not going to do anything crazy. I _do_ like this job. I just…”

“You want to be a Captain again,” she voiced out, repeating something Paz had also mentioned at Christmas. And there was some truth to it, he couldn’t deny it.

“I won’t be their youngest Captain. But that doesn’t mean I won’t try becoming their fastest promotion,” Din agreed.

Cara left soon after that, and he was in better spirits than before she arrived. He hoped that was the same for her, as he had been able to see that leaving Seattle with the knowledge that Paz was being posted overseas didn’t sit well with her. Although she certainly was a master at hiding her emotions – but being well versed in the art himself meant Din could see the signs easily. So the next time Paz called – two days later on his satellite phone at stupid o’clock in the morning when he had just gotten back from the airport and was trying to sleep – he reminded his old friend that Cara might also appreciate his calls, and he might receive a warmer welcome from her than from him.

He did find the fuse box he was looking for as well as the necessary wires and tools he’d need to start working on Omera’s installation, so after checking with her via a rare phone call, he made his way to Raymond on Saturday morning accompanied by a sleepy Santi who’d perked up when he mentioned Winta.

Din hadn’t been there in a month, and he was struck once more at how cold the place was compared to Seattle, even if he’d been driving south. Thankfully, he’d put enough layers on the kid, including a hooded sweatshirt reminiscent of the one he had found in Walmart over the summer, black and white with tiny panda ears this time. Peli, the case worker from DHS he usually dealt with regarding Santi had looked at him strangely when he’d ‘handed back’ the boy wearing it two weeks ago. Maybe she didn’t appreciate how cute it was, but that was her loss, as far as he was concerned. Winta had even asked if it came in bigger sizes, and he’d promised to look next time he visited the store in question.

The weekend passed too quickly, but he’d managed to make good on his promise not to have the power cut for too long while he was changing the fuse box, and the house didn’t have time to get cold. Still, Omera decided to build a fire in the evening, and he drifted off in front of the first _Back to the Future_ film he had brought for Winta with a warm child against his chest, and the even warmer scent of wood smoke filling his senses and making him want to stay in that exact spot forever. Omera waking him with an amused smirk when the credits rolled did nothing to help him change his mind. On the contrary.

He was only able to tackle the kitchen and downstairs bathroom the next day, as he needed to be back in Seattle early enough to drop off Santi at the home before his bedtime, but he took the time to play a game of hide and seek with the kids, and answer most of Winta’s questions regarding his first couple of weeks at work over lunch.

_He could certainly get used to all of this._

Din struck gold again the next week, when he was put on the roster for the Sacramento flight on Friday, and was allowed to have Santi for a second weekend in a row. He even found the time to visit the kids’ clothing store and got a panda hoodie for Winta, which she immediately put on when he gifted it to her.

“Let me take a picture!” he proclaimed, when he saw her taking Santi in her arms. They looked precious with their similar outfits, and his son was in a particularly good mood that day, showing all his baby teeth to the world.

He’d been given a decent phone for work, and he was pleased to see it took rather good pictures – something he’d never done before, but which Kuiil’s gift had reminded him to do more. The boy was growing absurdly quickly, and he didn’t want to miss one bit of it. He was certainly glad to have a salary that allowed him to buy enough baby clothes: he seemed to be outgrowing everything at a fast pace, and he was thankful of the recommendation he’d had once to always buy one or two sizes up. He hadn’t messed up Winta’s size either, which Omera was quick to notice.

“You’re really getting the hang of things,” she praised with a warm smile. And for once, he didn’t shrug it off – it felt nice.

He managed to work on the remaining downstairs rooms during the weekend, and didn’t fall asleep during _Back to the Future Part II_ , which was a good thing, as Winta had hundreds of questions afterwards.

“You _are_ coming next weekend, right?” she asked once she was done – or so he thought.

“I won’t have Santi…” he hedged.

“But you can’t leave me hanging like that, I _need_ to watch the last part. Where is Doc? What’s gonna happen to Marty without the Delorean? Is he still getting fired in the future? What about Jennifer?”

“Okay, okay, I’ll come,” he promised, seeing Omera laugh quietly in the background – he _wasn’t_ getting the hang of things. He’d just caved.

The next weekend, sans Santi but after having seen Cara the previous day in Sacramento – she was bored out of her skull, and had repeated it about twelve times in the ninety minutes he had between his two flights at the airport bar – the _fun_ part of the rewiring started. He was now tackling the first floor, which meant being a bit creative to route the various cables properly without busting all the walls.

“Need any help?” Omera asked.

Din turned from his prone position on the floor – he was lying face down, trying to pull up a wire from downstairs through a tiny hole, and wasn’t being very successful.

“Could you maybe… Hold the phone torch while I’m trying to see what I’m doing?” he suggested, handing her the device.

“Sure,” she replied, and sat very close to him, aiming the torch at his hands. Din tried to concentrate on what he was doing rather than on her proximity, and eventually managed to pull up the recalcitrant cable.

“Thanks!” he breathed out, sitting back up again.

Omera looked at his phone before handing it back to him and frowned.

“You put Winta and Santi’s picture wearing their panda outfits as your phone background?”

“Yeah, I thought it was fun,” he replied immediately, not thinking.

But Omera raised her eyes towards him and he suddenly grew very still – it was impossible to read her reaction and he started asking himself all kind of questions. _Oh no_ , she was mad, wasn’t she? He shouldn’t have done that. Not without asking her first, maybe. He’d been presumptuous. Santi was his kid but Winta wasn’t.

She handed him his phone without a word and he took it automatically, placing it back in his pocket all the while pondering how he should apologize, as her eyes still hadn’t left is, and he was incapable of looking away.

“I’m sorry, that was weird of me. Or creepy or…”

But he didn’t have time to finish his sentence because Omera had grabbed his face and was in the process of kissing him. It took him a couple of seconds to realize what was happening and then he became an active participant. Because _dammit_ , that was unexpected. But also long, _long_ overdue he conceded, as his hands found easy purchase against her sides and her lips slanted _that_ way and he was lost. Lost in her sighs and the smell of her hair. Lost in her fingers now running through his locks and her warmth he brought closer to his own. The touch of her tongue and the bite of her teeth. And just as his brain was about to catch up with his body – and probably ruin everything as usual – they were interrupted by Winta’s voice, thankfully coming from downstairs.

His earing was all fuzzy but he thought it was something about the dryer emitting beeps. But who cared when Omera was all but straddling him on the floor and his hands were tangled in her dark, shiny strands.

“Okay, Winta!” she called out, although she still hadn’t moved.

Din opened his eyes – he’d just realized they were still closed – but had the sudden urge to close them again when he saw the heat of her stare. They were both panting heavily, sharing a breath, noses still almost touching. Omera lowered her hands from his hair to his raspy cheeks then kissed his neck, once.

“It’s not weird or creepy, keep the picture,” she whispered before standing up and exiting the room with a carefree smile.

Contrastingly, Din didn’t think he moved for the next ten minutes.

Din just about managed to finish the upstairs room he was working on before joining Winta and Omera for dinner. It took him about a minute to realize that he was the only one behaving awkwardly, so he eventually relaxed, and listened to Winta’s questions about how he was progressing with the installation and if she could help him tomorrow. Omera smiled at him over her glass and he relaxed some more. All was well.

They watched the third installment of _Back to the Future_ in the living room, Winta eating ice cream between them – ‘I don’t care that it’s Winter, ice cream is good all year round’ – and Omera and him having a beer. He missed Santi, but sitting next to them was the next best thing.

Winta didn’t have as many questions at the end as the last time and didn’t complain too loudly when she was sent to bed. Din stayed where he was on the couch, and wondered if it wasn’t just safer if he also went to bed, but Omera handed him another beer as she was making her way upstairs to kiss Winta goodnight and she let her hand linger in his hair on the way. So maybe not just yet, then.

She rejoined him a few minutes later with a beer of her own, and sat a bit closer than she usually did, which was still about a foot away.

“Second thoughts?” she asked without preamble.

“You’re the one who kissed me,” he replied.

“You didn’t stop me,” she countered, and he shrugged with a half grin.

“Cara said I should learn to loosen up, or something to that effect,” he admitted, the beer helping.

“Well, she _did_ ask me not to jump your bones, but that was a couple of months ago, now.”

Din just about managed not to spit out his beer through his nose and was glad of the darkness the room provided, as he was probably blushing.

“She told me two weeks ago that maybe I shouldn’t jump into your bed,” he recalled.

“She is sending mixed signals,” Omera noted. “You should see some of her texts.”

“I _really_ don’t,” Din replied, shaking his head.

“No, you really don’t,” she agreed with a laugh.

They remained silent for a while, enjoying each other’s company while sipping their beers.

“I can’t believe you’d think I’d find anything bad to say about you keeping a picture of my daughter and your son on your phone,” she finally said, frowning in wonder. “It’s the most heart-warming thing anyone could do. You really can’t see it, can you?”

“See what?”

“People see a woman like me, in her late thirties, with a grown daughter and no husband, and they think there must be something wrong with me. That I either scared off my man or busted his balls until he divorced me, or that I just _prefer_ being on my own, which to them is even weirder.”

“I never thought that,” he defended himself.

“And yet when society sees you, a man on his own with a baby, everybody starts thinking it’s _oh so precious_ and it somehow makes you more desirable. I hate those double standards,” Omera continued.

Din stayed silent, understanding that it was a serious topic for her and that he shouldn’t interrupt.

“So to have _you_ choosing that very picture and proudly displaying it, it’s… Why would I _ever_ find it weird? It’s beautiful, Din.”

He had to think about what he wanted to say in reply to that, and played with the label of his beer bottle to find inspiration.

“Did that make me more desirable? The baby?” he eventually asked, curious and just a bit cheeky.

“Oh yes, you turning up all bloodied with that kid back in July _really_ played in your favor,” she deadpanned.

He grinned and found the courage to set his empty bottle on the coffee table and grab her hand.

“I don’t care about what I’m supposed to think. I just know that being with you and Winta feels right. Like when I decided that Santi should be with me. It felt right. The rest doesn’t matter,” he told her, hoping she could hear the honesty in his words, if not his eyes, as he couldn’t manage to look up from their joined hands.

But it seemed like she did, because she pulled against his hand and made him look up before tentatively reaching for his face. He kissed her first this time, and the taste of her smile against his lips was one he didn’t forget for a long time.

Work kept him busy for the next couple of weeks, which meant it was unfortunately impossible for him to go back to Raymond for a while. After having been allowed to look after Santi for several weekends in a row, he had come to expect it, but the painful reality was that it would remain a rare occurrence. It was now almost a month since he’d seen him for the last time, and he had thus accepted to cover for other pilots during the weekends and had even reached out to his bouncer friends on the evenings he was free to see if they needed any help – they always did, and it felt good to keep his mind and body busy, even if it meant taking a few punches here and there.

Still, it didn’t mean he wasn’t thinking about kissing Omera – the only thing they had done – but it was enough to keep his mind occupied when he was trying to get some much needed sleep.

I.G. was proving uncharacteristically difficult to reach, and he was growing concerned about the absence of news from the DHS center – his lawyer was the one who coordinated everything, getting him visitation rights from the judge, and never before had he left him without news for a whole month. To say he was growing antsy was an understatement. He was missing his son, and starting to worry about the young man. He tried calling Kuiil, but the result was the same – no answer.

And then he finally received a call on a Tuesday evening after a long couple of days he spent almost nonstop in the air.

“I.G., are you okay? I’ve been trying to reach you for a little while,” he immediately asked, massaging his tensed neck with his free hand – he was in need of a warm shower and uninterrupted sleep in a horizontal position.

“I am sorry, I have been busy,” replied the young lawyer in his usual matter-of-fact tone.

“What’s up?”

“Kuiil died. I had to take care of the proper arrangements, as he had instructed me.”

“Kuiil…” but the word remained stuck in his throat, and he pressed his back against the wall behind him and slid to the floor.

“What happened?” Din eventually managed to ask in a small voice.

“He had been sick for a long time. I assume he didn’t tell you?”

“No, nothing,” he answered, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. “What… When’s the funeral?” he remembered asking.

“Yesterday,” I.G. said quickly.

“But… I should have been there! Why didn’t you say?” he complained, trying and failing to keep the anger out of his tone.

“Kuiil asked me not to. He didn’t want you to risk coming to Los Angeles.”

“That was _my_ decision, not _his_!” he grumbled.

“It was _his_ decision,” I.G. countered. “He wanted you safe.”

“But… But he was fine for Santi’s birthday, just tired... And he didn’t say anything! Why wouldn’t he say that something was wrong? I don’t understand!”

“He knew about his cancer long before he found you again. He _chose_ not to say anything to you, and I never questioned his decision.”

Din ran his free hand through his hair and scratched his scalp angrily. He was fighting tears of sadness and fatigue, with a good mix of guilt thrown into it. Did dealing with his case make him sicker somehow? Had he rushed him to his grave with his problems? _What would his father think?_

“I didn’t think he’d hold on for so long,” said I.G., somehow reading his thoughts. “Finding you gave unexpected meaning to his life again, and even his doctors were stumped by his resilience. Making sure you were safe and free from prosecution was the last thing he wanted to do with his life, and he managed to do it.”

Din stopped trying to hold his tears, and let them run freely on his cheeks, his back against the wall, his knees against his chest, making himself as small as possible.

“I’m sorry…” he blurted out. “I know he meant a lot to you, that he was your mentor and…”

“I’m the one who is sorry,” I.G interrupted. “I felt that he was taking things too far, when he decided to fly to Seattle last month. But I understand now that he wanted to see you one last time and meet Santiago. That was him getting closure, and I shouldn’t have resented him – or you – for that.”

Din wiped his eyes angrily and tried to make sense of all the thoughts rushing though his mind. All the things he had wanted to say to the old man and now would never be able to. All the questions he should have asked about his father. All that knowledge, and all his memories – gone. Forever.

He barely managed to offer his condolences, and they hung up soon after that, I.G. promising he’d do his best to convince the judge to let him have Santi next weekend, which made him feel even worse. His first thought when picking up the call was for his son, and to complain that he hadn’t seen him for a while – he had never thought that anything _else_ could be wrong. How very selfish of him.

He groaned at the onslaught of guilt rushing in again, and banged his head against the wall, hard. He still hadn’t risen up from the floor, and decided that be belonged there for the time being.

After a while – a long while – he eventually stood up on rubbery legs and reached his coffee table. The pictures were still lying there. With his rare free time, he’d continued ordering them, and selecting the ones he wanted to frame or enlarge. It took him a minute, but he finally found the one he was looking for. His father and Kuiil, probably in the latter’s office, which meant that his mom must have taken the picture. His own dark hair was just peeking out from behind a desk. He guessed he must have been 4 or 5 at the time, but had no memory of that particular day. Still, the two men were laughing, and he decided that was how he should remember the lawyer. His father’s friend. Kuiil.

So he picked up the picture and put it in the right pile – it certainly deserved a frame.


	5. Delays

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, there is some (mild) smut in the last part of this chapter. Hope you enjoy!

Peli was late. She _hated_ being late. But her last two home visits had taken longer than expected, and the Sunday afternoon traffic hadn’t helped matters. Thankfully, she was on her last run and just had to pick up a kid and drive him back to his DHS appointed home. Most days, Peli liked her job, and knew that she was trying to make a difference. And yet, after thirty years, there were still situations that boggled the mind and made her want to scream into the void. The two families she had just visited were utterly dysfunctional and messed up beyond repair. Nevertheless, _those_ children, bless their little souls, she was instructed to do her very best to maintain in their homes. No matter how many reports she wrote citing her misgivings.

But the happy, well-adjusted boy she was now late getting to, she had to remove from his guardian, time after time, because he didn’t fit the profile. First, he wasn’t blood. And that was a big no-no. No matter what, the first priority was always to place little ones with their direct family. Second, he was an unmarried man. Third, and she hated herself for thinking it but knew it was true, he wasn’t White. And coming in a strong fourth position, he _apparently_ had priors with the justice system.

It didn’t matter that he had a stable, high-paying job, a clean and safe apartment, or a very positive influence on the child’s development. Or that he loved said child to bits and was loved in return. No. The judge still wouldn’t sign the papers that would grant him permanent guardianship – let alone adoption, which would probably take a decade. No matter how many reports she filed in. Frankly, she wondered sometimes what good all that paperwork did.

That wasn’t to say that she didn’t have her doubts about him at first. But she prided herself on being a good judge of character – a necessity in her line of work. And her first impressions rarely deviated. He’d clearly been a nervous wreck when she’d first met him at the home, after he’d been granted a visit there. She knew from reading his file that he’d somehow rescued the child from a dangerous situation and that they had been on the run together for a couple of weeks. That was only part of the story, she was well aware, but the FBI had sealed his records as it pertained to an ongoing investigation. In other words, most of what she’d learned about him was probably bullshit. Which explained her skepticism on that first day.

But that had changed quickly when she saw him interact with the boy, who at that time was very quiet and withdrawn. The man was very quiet, too. And patient. And focused on the kid. _Only_ the kid. He seemed to instinctively know that it was the right thing to do. And his calm understanding was just what the little one needed, and he’d started thriving, slowly. Talking more. Smiling. Interacting. Playing with other children. It almost felt like she was meeting a different child when she went to pick him up at the end of the few weekends the man was granted. At least, until he remembered what her presence meant – she was taking him back to that other place, _again_.

Peli sighed and finally parked her car in a free spot. She wasn’t immune to kids’ tears, even after all these years as a case worker, but she could tell when they were genuine. And Santiago Djarin’s tears were genuine when she came to take him away from his dad. He was only supposed to be Santiago – she agreed that it was a much better fit than the ‘William’ he had been saddled with on his arrival – but in her mind she liked pretending he had his father’s name already. Although it made the situation somehow worse: by truly recognizing his parentage, she felt even more like a monster.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” she immediately apologized when Mr. Djarin opened the door.

“That’s alright, come in,” he replied. “Do you want some coffee before you go?”

Always so polite. One of the only parents she visited who would offer her something.

“That’s okay, thank you. Traffic is a nightmare and it’s already pretty late, it would be best if we were on our way,” she declined, walking behind him.

“As you were running a bit late I started giving Santi his dinner. I know they usually do that at the center but…”

The boy was in his high chair, bib on, concentrating hard on his plate of gnocchi and carrots and still hadn’t noticed her. Did he actually think she was going to prevent him from feeding his child and take him away right this instant? She looked up at him, and he seemed so unsure – not sitting back down next to Santiago and not doing anything to stop the boy either. Waiting for her decision. Yes, he really thought she was going to do that.

“You know what, traffic can’t get any worse in half an hour. A cup of coffee would actually be nice, thank you,” she told him, and sat at the table.

He flashed her a quick smile and disappeared in the small kitchen, leaving her to observe the boy, who was still working on his food with all the seriousness it required, his eyebrows crossed in concentration.

“Hello, Santiago,” Peli offered the boy.

He looked up for a second, decided she wasn’t as interesting as what was on his plate, but still replied with a small “Hi.” He began fidgeting after a while, but didn’t start crying. He was a quick child and knew that she had come to pick him up. But he usually didn’t get to have his dinner here before she drove him back to the home.

“What’s wrong, _cariño_?” his guardian asked once he was back with her coffee, sugar, and milk. The boy relaxed at seeing him reappear, but the man tensed up at the word he had used in her presence.

“You’re not fooling anybody, Mr. Djarin,” she said with a falsely accusing stare. “We all know you’re speaking Spanish to him when he’s with you.”

“Sorry,” he grumbled, chastened, and sat down next to the child to hand him his fork again. He hadn’t looked at her to see that she wasn’t actually blaming him – maybe he needed to hear it, then.

“That wasn’t a reproach. I shouldn’t have been so quick to judge on that first day,” she told him, and this time he finally glanced at her, the surprise clear on his face. “Some of our workers at the center started doing the same. It calms him down when he’s having a bad time.”

“Does he…often have bad times?” he asked, suddenly worried again.

“He’s a two year old kid – it’s not unknown for children of that age to have tantrums every once in a while,” she remarked with a smirk.

“No, I just mean, no worse than normal?”

“What’s normal? All the kids at the center are different, and some have had it worse than others.”

His shoulders drooped in a sigh and he didn’t press her again.

“Your little boy is a sweet child. He has improved in leaps and bounds over the past few months, in great parts thanks to you,” Peli felt the need to add – but the man couldn’t accept a compliment to save his life.

“I doubt it, I barely get to spend time with him,” he objected, turning back to Santiago who was politely asking for some water, validating her point.

Peli sighed and drank her coffee quietly, observing the duo interact. It was certainly a nice change from the chaos of her previous visits. There was no drama, the boy ate his food, and his guardian didn’t throw a fit when said food didn’t reach his mouth, letting him test his limits but no further.

“I want milk, dada,” the boy asked when he was mostly done, spying the carton he had brought with her coffee on the table. “Please,” he added.

“Is that okay?” he asked her, checking his watch.

“Of course,” Peli replied – as if a few minutes mattered anymore.

He poured the boy some milk, which he drank with gusto and he allowed himself a quick laugh at his white moustache afterwards. Santiago giggled in reply and the hearty sound tore at her soul.

“You just have to be a little more patient. I’m sure they’re gonna let you have him for good soon,” Peli voiced out, both for her sake and his, as she also needed convincing before making one more stupid journey to the DHS home with a heartbroken child in the backseat.

“I’m just gonna clean him up a bit,” he mumbled, grabbing the boy from his high chair and disappearing in the kitchen. She heard them speak quietly from where she was still sitting, but couldn’t make out the words.

The tears predictably started when they neared the door, Peli already carrying the small holdall that held the boy’s belongings. He tried to shush him, but she knew nothing would work.

“Walk me to my car?” she suggested, saying the words before she could think too much about them.

“Don’t you think it’s going to make things worse?” he asked and she shrugged, as she didn’t know. But she wanted to try. And she felt the boy deserved to be held by his guardian for a little longer.

It turned out to be a good decision in the end, as the child let himself be strapped in the seat in the back of her car without too much fussing.

“ _Te quiero mucho,_ Santi,” he told the boy after kissing his forehead quickly.

“ _Te quiero,_ dada,” she heard the child reply before he closed the door and waved to her from outside, a forced smile plastered on his face. Peli waved back and started the car. She decided on the spot that she’d arrive ‘late’ more often on Sundays – she could always pretend there had been traffic.

* * *

Djarin’s plane was delayed. Cara knew this thanks to the large TV screen situated above the bar which graciously provided flight departure and arrival times. She was aware that she could leave the place and text him that they’d meet the next time he was in Sacramento, as he’d probably need to fly back quickly and might not have much time to spare. But the truth was, she didn’t have anything better to do at the moment, and she liked those small moments they shared. It didn’t happen every Friday – sometimes she was busy or he wasn’t on the roster – but it was always something to look forward to in her boring schedule.

Cara sighed, and ordered another tonic.

She was halfway through it when he finally showed up, hair in disarray and with his cap under his arm. She was _just_ starting to get used to see him in uniform. Today though, there was something else about his appearance that needed mentioning.

“Please tell me you face-planted coming down those ridiculous airplane stairs,” Cara said in lieu of greetings, as he sat down in front of her and got his breath back.

“Hi, Cara,” he replied, ignoring her remark completely.

“You’re refusing to tell me why you have a black eye and split lip because you’re ashamed of how you got them, or because you know I’m not going to like your answer?” she pressed, as he ordered his usual Coke.

“The second one,” he admitted, looking a bit sheepish.

“Din, what the hell? You don’t need the money, why do you keep working for those people?”

“I’m not doing it for the money,” he shrugged. “I don’t ask to be paid.”

“So you’re just doing it for the fun of it? You _like_ getting your head kicked in? Remind me again how you passed all your psych evaluations?”

Din drank half his soda in one go while he thought about his answer: she could almost see the gears turning in his head.

“It’s just an excuse to spend time with the guys and they always need the help.”

“Can’t you go out for beers instead? Like normal dudes?”

“We do that too, sometimes. And it’s not seedy clubs like at the very beginning. Some of the bands who play are quite good. I mean, pretty much all of them want to be the new Nirvana, but…”

“You’re rambling, you’re never rambling,” Cara interrupted.

“Sometimes, they hand out T-shirts and CDs to the security team after their set,” he carried on, unfazed.

“You’re doing this for _free_ _merchandizing_?” she frowned.

“It was just bad luck really, some guy got pissed off that we wouldn’t let him climb on the stage, it took two of us to bring him down…”

“Djarin!” Cara raised her voice, tired of his antics.

“What?” he replied, finally looking at her. That black eye was nasty.

“Why do you…” she started, then realized she was stumped. How could she voice this without implying that he was doing all of this on _purpose_ , as usual? She knew doing so wouldn’t help the situation, so she took in a deep breath, then tried again. “Why can’t you take the expression ‘don’t beat yourself up over this’ literally?”

“I just told you, it was an accident. It’s usually fine,” he replied calmly, playing with his now empty glass.

“How do you even have the _time_? Aren’t your days tiring enough?”

“I still have some free evenings.”

“Yes, to _rest_ , which I’m sure you’re doing.”

“My schedule is still pretty light, and once I have Santi…”

“Yes, yes,” Cara interrupted again. “You’re always playing that card. ‘Once I have Santi, I’ll be a good boy and stop messing around’. In the meantime, you keep doing that kind of stuff that _frankly_ is starting to be a bit worrying. I mean, what did you tell your colleagues?”

“That I’d…slipped on some ice while running,” he conceded, looking at his watch.

“When’s your flight back?” Cara asked.

“You still have about half an hour’s worth of tearing me a new one,” he quipped, but there was a small smile on his face, which made him wince, and Cara rolled her eyes.

“Look,” he started, bringing his chair closer to the table. “I’m not _purposefully_ trying to get hurt, I know that’s what you’re thinking. I _know_ I’m pushing myself too hard, but honestly it’s just because I get bored, and I like to do stuff that are mildly useful and keep me on my toes. It beats watching whatever crap’s on TV.”

“You don’t even have a TV,” she pointed out.

“True, I should get one so that I can use that argument again, though.”

“You could just get a hobby, like everybody else,” she suggested.

“Oh yeah? What’s your hobby?” he asked.

“Going to the shooting range or the gym,” she admitted and he raised his eyebrows in a ‘You see?’ expression she was starting to be familiar with, and found annoying.

She understood what he meant, though. She _hated_ finding herself with nothing to do. And she could imagine that his thoughts weren’t always the most pleasant, when he didn’t have anything to focus on. It was also not hard to imagine that adjusting to a normal life after having spent half his adult life in the military and the other half working for a gang was no easy task. There was also something else she hadn’t mentioned to him directly yet, the right words escaping her completely, but maybe it would make a difference if she said it now.

“I’m sorry about Kuiil,” Cara offered, her voice turning softer.

“Yeah,” he replied, one of his hands running through his hair and messing it up some more – hopefully he’d put his cap back on when he left and no one would be the wiser.

“How’s I.G. doing?” she asked, having spent some time with the younger lawyer and aware that he had been close to the old man.

“Hard to say with him,” Din replied. “But I saw him last week at a hearing and he seemed to be his usual self. He doesn’t talk about it, though. And I didn’t press him.”

“Yeah, maybe not just yet,” Cara agreed. “And the hearing? How did it go?”

“It was like the hundredth one we were having, I just don’t know anymore,” he grumbled. “But I.G. seems to think we’re making progress. I have Santi this weekend, so I guess that’s good.”

“Oh that’s right, and Omera and Winta are visiting!” she remembered. “How are they all gonna fit in your tiny apartment? Did you spend a long time figuring out sleeping arrangements?” Cara wondered, waggling her eyebrows.

“Winta will sleep in Santi’s room on a spare mattress – at her request. I’ll sleep on the couch in the living room, and Omera will have the bed,” Din replied simply, not falling for it.

“On her own?”

“Yes, Cara, on her own,” he repeated, his tone long-suffering.

“Nothing… _more_ happened between you two?”

“I have no idea what Omera has been telling you and really, for my own sanity, I don’t want to know. But if you mean more than kissing, then no. And I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

“You’re no fun,” she complained, but dropped the subject for a while. “You’re not regretting your decision to invite them?”

“They’ve been hosting me for a while, and Winta’s only been to Seattle a couple of times. I know that hotels can be expensive and it’s the least I can do, really…”

“Yeah, after you fixed all the electricity at her place...”

“And after I would have probably died of blood loss if she hadn’t helped me back in July, yes,” he countered.

“So what’s the program for the weekend?” she asked instead.

“Winta hasn’t been to the aquarium yet and Santi loves going so that’s one thing, maybe the Space Needle if the queue isn’t too crazy, a walk in Pike Place… The usual things. We could go to the Museum of Flight on Sunday if they’re up for it,” Din started listing.

“So that you can woo them with your airplane nerdiness,” Cara nodded.

“Right,” he agreed, frowning. “Maybe not, then.”

“It’s okay, Din. I think they already know,” she stage whispered over the table and he rolled his eyes.

“Speaking of airplane nerdiness, did you by any chance mention to Paz the last time you had him on the phone that he should call me more or something?”

She’d always thought him to be rather oblivious when it came to other people’s feelings – hell, also his own – but the innocent expression she received at her question wasn’t fooling anybody, and it made her reevaluate her opinion on him on the subject. Maybe he understood more than he let on. In any case, she was appreciative, and toasted the last of her tonic to him.

Just as they were about to say their goodbyes she saw his tense up suddenly as he stood up, and look over her shoulder.

“What is it?” she pressed, turning around but spying nothing of interest – no one was looking in their direction and the bar wasn’t crowded.

“Nothing,” he replied, although his eyes were still fixed somewhere in the distance and his brow furrowed.

“Nothing,” Din repeated, “I thought I recognized someone but I was wrong.”

He looked back towards her, carefree expression on his face, and that was it. He almost had her convinced – almost.

* * *

It was already starting to get late when Omera received the call. Winta was at a sleepover, and she was having a rare evening to herself, going through some of her old textbooks from med school – something she wasn’t quite ready to do in front of her daughter yet, for fear of her questions. Truth was, she wasn’t sure why she was doing it herself.

“Hey Din, you okay?”

Receiving a call from your…whatever they were to each other… _friend_ , at least, at 10PM on a Saturday night shouldn’t have been an odd occurrence. But Din wasn’t most people. And she hadn’t had news from him in almost three weeks.

“Din?” she said again when he didn’t reply, then checked her phone – he hadn’t hung up, and that was indeed his number showing on her screen.

He’d told her the last time she saw him when they visited him and his son in Seattle that he _might_ be a bit busy for a while. And the man hadn’t lied, as she’d gathered he was to fly across the country non-stop to cover for a pilot who had broken his leg skiing on top of his own schedule. Cara had filled her in on that _detail_ , as she’d been lucky enough to see him at one point last week. In her own words he’d ‘looked like shit, but he was alive at least’.

“Din, what’s wrong? Can you talk?”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called, it’s late,” she finally heard him answer after a drawn out sigh. His voice sounded…off.

“It’s not late, talk to me. What’s going on? Can I help?”

“No, it’s… I just wanted to hear your voice, that’s all.”

At first she thought that maybe he’d been drinking, but his slurred words weren’t caused by alcohol.

“Are you home? Still at work?” she pressed, hoping he’d open up a bit.

“I’m home, got back a couple of hours ago.”

“You must be exhausted,” she remarked. “Try to get some sleep.”

Maybe this was just that, extreme fatigue. But somehow, she didn’t think he’d call if it was the only issue.

“Din?” Omera repeated when the silence stretched for too long again. She could just about hear him breathe at the end of the line. Rapid, painful sounds.

“Please, talk to me, did something happen? Are you hurt?” she insisted, starting to worry now.

“I.G. called,” he eventually replied, struggling to get the words out. “He doesn’t know why yet, but…”

He stopped, his voice breaking and Omera stood up.

“What did I.G. say? Something to do with Santi?”

“He’s… The judge has asked to review the whole case. And in the meantime, I can’t have visitation rights,” his tone was almost bored when he said it – just him repeating what he had been told.

“But what does that mean? Why would he want to review the case?” Omera asked, puzzled.

“I.G. says it could be good news, that he’s finally going to sign off on the permanent guardianship papers, or…”

“Or what?” she pressed, when he wouldn’t add more.

“Or the Justice Department got involved, and someone slipped them my file.”

“But who would do that? And aren’t your records sealed since you testified and got immunity?”

“Yeah, they should be. But it can’t be _that_ hard for them to access them. And if they did…”

He didn’t have to spell it out. If they knew who he was, who he _really_ was and what he’d done, it was game over. So the off tone of his voice and his rapid breaths weren’t due to fatigue or alcohol. He was having a panic attack.

“Din, I’m coming over,” Omera said, already grabbing her bag and keys.

“It’s fine, you don’t have to…” he uttered, although his tone told a different story.

“I _want_ to. I’ll be there in two hours,” she replied. Less if she had anything to say about it, and she hoped traffic was light. “Just try to stay calm, okay? I’m sure everything is going to be fine and I.G. is already working on a solution as we speak.”

“I… Okay, thanks,” he eventually replied just before she disconnected.

It took her less than five minutes to leave, and she quickly found herself on the Interstate. Once there, she let her mind wander.

She’d been concerned the last time she saw him at the fresh bruises on his face, but he’d done his best to dispel her worries, and the weekend they spent had been lovely. Still, she hoped the idiot hadn’t been in another fight on top of everything else. She _knew_ of his proclivity to look for trouble when he thought he deserved it. Maybe she’d figure him out, one day. Maybe she’d manage to reconcile the man who seemed to enjoy getting into brawls with the one who accepted to read _Chu’s Day_ to his kid 6 times in a row without a single word of complaint. Or the one who’d almost had his way with her against his kitchen counter if they hadn’t been interrupted by said kid crying.

Omera sighed, and focused on the road again.

She had been an active participant too, after all. And just as frustrated at the interruption as he had been. If not more so, as he’d seemed a bit relieved when he said he needed to get to his kid before he woke Winta up as well. It had started as an accident, really. Just two people _somehow_ finding themselves in the kitchen at 2AM to get something to drink. And then a kiss had led to more, as they’d both quickly realized that they were wearing a lot fewer layers than usual and that it made accessing skin _that_ much easier. Skin and other things, but it was at that point that little Santi had decided it was a good time to wake up, and Omera brutally remembered how sketchy her sex life had been when Winta was the same age.

Omera managed to complete the journey in less than two hours in the end, and found a spot to park close to his building. At no point did she regret her decision or think that she should turn around. And Din’s face when he opened the door only validated her choice. ‘Haggard’ was probably a good adjective to describe him at the moment. He was pale, his eyes blood shot and his hair looked as though he’d run his hands through them for hours. And through it all, he seemed _stunned_ that she was actually there. But she’d said she’d be, hadn’t she?

“Any news from I.G.?” she asked, following his silent figure to the living room. He shook his head, and went back to what he had probably been doing all this time – walking the length of the small room.

“Din…” she tried again, grabbing his shoulders from behind, and he eventually stopped pacing.

“What am I going to do?” he asked her point blank when he turned, his eyes fixed on hers.

“There’s _nothing_ you can do at the moment. You just have to wait,” she told him, her hands sliding to his neck.

“And hope for the best, right?” he completed with a forced laugh.

“When has I.G. _ever_ let you down?” she pressed, doing her best to smooth away the tension she could feel under her fingers.

He lowered his gaze to his feet and some of the strain eased off from his shoulders. His breath was still coming in short bursts and he closed his eyes forcefully when she moved her hands to frame his face.

“What’s the point of all this if I can’t have Santi with me? Why do I always have to _wait_?” he asked brokenly.

“I don’t know,” she replied honestly, stroking his cheeks gently. “But isn’t the wait worth it if you can get what you want in the end?”

He opened his eyes again and pulled her closer to him, his hands coming to rest at the small of her back.

“I’m just so tired,” he mumbled against her neck, her arms looping around his shoulders. “So _fucking_ tired.”

“I know,” she acknowledged, her head coming to rest naturally beneath his chin. Funny, in all this time, they’d hugged like this only once – that first night she’d known him when he was delirious with fever. She could feel him shaking around her and trying to control his breathing – in, and out, in, and out. Omera closed her eyes and breathed with him, in the hope that her forced calmness would somehow rub off on him. In, and out, in, and out…

“What am I supposed to do?” he asked rhetorically as she listened to his heart beating wildly against his chest. She could also hear the tears he wasn’t quite managing to suppress in his voice, but Omera did nothing to acknowledge them, instinctively recognizing he’d prefer it that way.

“You carry on,” she still replied. “Because that’s the only thing you _can_ do. And when things start looking up again, and they _will_ , you’re ready for them.”

He swallowed hard and pulled her closer to him, finding strength – she hoped at least – in her confidence.

“Okay,” he said, nodding, and she pressed a kiss over his heart through his clothes. “Okay,” Din repeated as he lowered his forehead to hers when she looked up. His smile was forced and his eyes red. She raised her hands to his face and caught the last couple of tears with her thumbs before they rolled on his cheeks.

She expected his kisses to be careful and unhurried, as they usually started that way when he initiated them. But she was wrong. This time, she was the one who had to catch up quickly to his pace. Her heartbeat soon raised to the same tempo as his, still beating hard under her hands, his lips never leaving hers for long in their endless pursuit of whatever it was that both made them dizzy with the need for _more_ , _faster_.

Breathing hard through her nose, with her hands now venturing through his hair, she let herself be guided to the nearest wall, his arms cushioning her back. Only then did he release her lips, but Omera didn’t have time to properly get her breath back before he decided to attack her neck, throat and _that_ spot behind her ear that made her pull hard at his locks. Din groaned and pressed closer to her, and she realized that she didn’t mind that new pace one bit. And that this time, there would be no children to prevent them from taking it as far as they wanted to go, even if that realization made her feel slightly guilty. Up until he decided to raise her hips to his and she locked her ankles behind his back – from that point on, there was only one thing she would focus on.

She guided his lips back to hers, the fact that they were now at the same eye-level helping matters greatly, and playfully chased his tongue with hers. Their hips started their own dance and even though they were wearing more layers than 3 weeks ago in his kitchen, it was achingly obvious that he was hard for her, and her own desire pooled low in her belly in response.

Wanting to experience more – always, _more_ – and feeling his hands sliding across her sides under her top, she took the initiative to remove the garment herself. Din fortunately didn’t remain floored for long, and marveled at the revealed skin first with his hands, then with his lips. With her hips around his, there wasn’t much she could do to remove his own clothes, especially when her wandering hands told her he was wearing two layers – the man was making things more difficult for himself.

But it didn’t mean there was _nothing_ she could do to make him go _faster_ and she took advantage of having his face in her cleavage to nip at his earlobe and press against his crotch harder. The result was instantaneous as he reflexively pressed back against her with a loud moan, turning her insides on fire, and recaptured her lips in a heated kiss.

Then suddenly, just as she was congratulating herself for having moved things further than the kitchen counter episode and wondering if she should start on his belt or on her bra next, he pushed back against the wall with his arms and uttered a rush “No, wait.”

Startled and confused, she untwisted her legs from around his waist and found herself looking up at him again with her feet back on the ground. He seemed just as startled and confused as her, and tried to bring her closer again before stopping himself.

“I just meant…not here,” he tried to explain, realizing too late how his words had sounded, and very much looking like he wanted to bang his head against the wall at his own stupidity. So she decided to take pity on him and grasped his hands, placing them around her waist again.

“What did you have in mind, then?” she asked, glad to see him gradually relax. “The kitchen counter and be successful this time?”

He shook his head with a smile, dragging her outside the room.

“The couch?” she tried again, although it was now behind them, and he shook his head once more.

“The carpet by the front door?” Omera continued playing along, even though she knew exactly where he was taking her.

“My bed,” he replied simply and kissed her again.

“How adventurous,” she smiled against his lips, and let herself be led inside the only room she hadn’t seen yet in his apartment. He’d suggested she slept there when they’d come visiting with Winta. But she insisted she couldn’t, even when he assured her that it was fine and that he’d just changed the sheets. But sleeping in that man’s bed knowing that he was on the living room couch hadn’t sat well with her. Although she didn’t admit the real reason to him at the time – she was afraid she would be too tempted to drag him back there with her in the middle of the night.

Looking around now, she wasn’t surprised to see that the room was as spotless as the rest of his small apartment. Din wasn’t someone who’d go for knickknacks or clutter of any kind, but the few black and white pictures on the white walls was the personal touch it needed to make it look like a bedroom and not a page on a Ikea catalogue. That and the pile of books next to his bed that threatened to fall over.

“It’s beautiful, where is it?” she asked, eyeing the biggest frame across from his mattress which displayed a snowy peak surrounded by water.

“The Llaima Volcano, in Southern Chile,” he replied.

“All those pictures are from Chile?” Omera wondered, looking at each frame.

“Yeah, my father took them, long ago. Before he met my mom, I believe. I thought it would be nice to display them,” he added, unsure.

“It’s perfect,” she agreed. “You should put up more.”

“I intend to, I just didn’t have the time to go through all of them yet.”

“That was a nice gift he gave you,” Omera said, turning back towards him to gauge his reaction – she knew what had happened to the old lawyer thanks to Cara, and what he had meant to Din.

He nodded and she kissed him again, wanting to recapture their moment in the living room. Which proved easier than anticipated when his hands quickly gravitated to her back and the clasp of her bra. A man with a purpose, she liked that. She would have let him continue to pay reverence to her breasts for a while but one, she’d prefer he’d do that while they were horizontal and second, he was wearing too many damn clothes.

“Take that off,” she mumbled against his neck as she attempted to remove both his T-shirt and sweater in one go, the layers bunching at his back in her haste.

Din straightened up and she expected him to finally get rid of the garments but he surprised her once more.

“I…” he started, abashed, then stopped.

 _Oh God_ , not that again, she thought. Omera had hoped they were past his embarrassment regarding his scars, but apparently they were not. It seemed even more silly when she was standing in front of him in his bedroom with her own chest laid bare. But Din was a complicated man, and she had known that from the start.

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s not the first time I’ll see them and you already know that I don’t think they’re ugly. They’re you, and you’re beautiful,” she told him, slipping her hands under the layers but not doing anything to remove them just yet. She wanted him to get used to her touch first. When she had slowly raked her short nails top to bottom for the third time, lingering on sensitive spots on the way and stopping just past his belt, he finally sighed deeply and took both garments off quickly. Like ripping off a bandaid.

The small bedside lamp cast a soft glow in the room, but it was still enough to see his scars stand out in stark contrast against his skin. Omera didn’t want to make him feel uncomfortable, and hoped that he’d gradually learn to be more at ease with his body around her, so she planted a kiss in the middle of his chest and moved her hands to his lower back to press him closer still. She sighed at the contact of his skin against hers, but her right palm encountered a particular scar she couldn’t ignore like the others.

Din stood very still, but let her explore the raised and red skin.

“Cara said they had to do surgery?” she said.

“Yeah, I pulled the staples chasing after Gideon and there was some slight internal tearing, apparently. I don’t remember any of it,” he admitted.

The knife wound that had brought him in her life. It was odd that such a painful reminder would also evoke warm memories. But it was also the reason of her presence right now, and she could tell that Din realized it as well. That scar was the physical manifestation of his vow to protect his child. Against anything. And they were now waiting to learn if he’d ever get to see him again. Anything else they were doing in the meantime was just a distraction. The most wonderful distraction there was perhaps, but still only that.

And with that thought firmly implanted in her mind, she pushed him towards the bed. The rest of their clothes proved easier to discard: shoes, socks, jeans, underwear, and in no time at all it seemed, Omera had Din right where she wanted him – his hips against hers with no barriers between them, her hands sliding over the warm skin of his back while his tongue journeyed downwards on a path that made her take in smaller and smaller breaths. When his lips finally reached her center, she had to forcefully remind herself again that it was a distraction. Just a distraction. But _fuck_ it felt good. And she pulled hard at his hair to bring him back up before she could completely lose herself – they’d have time for more distractions later. Right now, the only distraction she needed was situated between his leg, and she wanted it inside her.

But Din had other ideas, and while she tested his length and marveled at how hard he already was, his hand reached her core again, and she felt his fingers tentatively circle her center before two plunged inside. She gasped and gripped him harder, which earned her a startled groan. He eventually realized that there was no point delaying this – she didn’t think she could get any wetter – and as he finally slowly pushed in, her moans grew louder while he became completely silent.

She wondered if there was anything wrong but he was still moving, gradually filling her until he was all the way in. He then stopped with a sigh, enjoying the feeling, and looked at her. As if he wanted to check that they were really doing this. _Finally_ , she thought, as she pulled his head down for a slow kiss, just as his hips started to move.

What they lacked in experience with each other, they made for in raw passion and that desperate wish to _forget_ , to be distracted for as long as they could make it last. And for the most part, it worked. Yes, they were all elbows and knees when they tried to switch positions, their noses and teeth would sometimes clash when they kissed and she was out of breath much sooner than she had expected, but this was still the most fun she’d had in a long time and she clung to his sweaty body longingly afterwards. She pressed her lips to his neck, and her mind remained blissfully blank for a while.

A long while apparently, because her next conscious thought was being woken by a phone ringing.

“Yes I.G.,” she heard Din reply in a clear voice that told her he hadn’t been asleep, contrary to her.

Omera tensed and rolled towards him. He was sitting with his back against the headboard, which made her wonder what he had been doing while she was safely in dreamland. A quick look towards the clock on his bedside table told her that she had only been resting for a little while, and that reassured her. She hated to think that she had been happily unaware while he’d been alone with his thoughts.

He sighed deeply, but it was impossible to tell if it was a good reaction to what he was hearing or not. Unsure how he would react and if he would welcome her touch, she slowly slid her hand towards his. To her surprise, he gripped it immediately, and pressed against her palm.

“Are you sure?” he asked the young lawyer, and she saw his throat working above her.

“But then why would they…” but his question was interrupted, and he muttered a low ‘Oh, _fuck_ ’ that didn’t sound good, but his hand hadn’t released hers.

“So what’s happening now?” he queried, his eyes fixed somewhere on the opposite wall.

The answer was a long one, and he only interjected with small remarks she couldn’t really make sense of. Through it all, she kept gripping his hand.

“Tomorrow, are you sure?” Finally, a smile – a small one, but it was there. “I’ll be there whenever they’ll have me, tell them that.” A bigger smile, then he thanked I.G., several times, and hung up.

Very slowly, he replaced his phone on the bedside table, then ran his now freed hands through his mussed up hair and exhaled deeply, closing his eyes and lowering his head to the bed. Omera sat up and placed her hands against his back.

“Hey,” she whispered, sliding her palms across the smooth, unscarred skin she found there. “Are you okay? What did I.G. say?”

Din stayed down for a little while, but seemed to appreciate her touch nonetheless. He eventually sat back up and turned towards her.

“It wasn’t the judge who asked to review Santi’s file.”

“Who was it, then?” she asked.

“ICE.”

“Ice?” she repeated, stupidly, then understood. “You mean…”

“Immigration, yes,” he replied simply as her eyes widened significantly.

“But…”

“He has no birth certificate, his parents are dead, no one knows where he was born, exactly,” Din reminded her, matter of factly, when all she wanted was to scream at the injustice of it all.

“But they can’t…”

“Deport him, why not? Have you watched the news lately?” he interrupted her.

“But…where? They don’t even know where he was born, you just said so,” she noted, her heart beating wildly against her chest. This was simply too awful to contemplate.

“They don’t care, they just started threatening to move him to a deportation center, pending investigation,” he carried on, unfazed.

“But…”

“It’s not gonna happen,” he told her, his voice finally turning softer as he grabbed her clenched fists.

“When I.G. figured out what was happening, he threw the book at them. They didn’t realize who they were messing with. I.G. used to work deportation cases in California before he moved up here. He knows the right people and the right judges apparently, as my visitation rights ban has been lifted. I can go get him at the home tomorrow and have him with me for a few days.”

“And I.G. thinks it will work itself out?” Omera still pressed, as he did his best to reassure her.

“Yeah, and I believe him. It’s…It’s got really personal for him now, I think. Although he wouldn’t talk about it,” he admitted, shrugging.

“So you’re taking a few days off?” she noted, pleased for him – _God_ knew he deserved them. The fact that he hadn’t simply keeled over and died yet was incredible. And she was certainly glad it hadn’t happened in the last hour or so.

“I’m supposed to take the whole _week_ off, according to work,” he grumbled, and she resisted the temptation to deck him.

“I’m pretty sure you need the rest,” she still pointed out, her gaze lingering on the lines on his face and the heavy bags under his eyes.

“Not just yet, though,” he countered, letting his lips slowly slide to hers in a kiss that definitely reminded her that he was quite good at this when he wanted to.

It felt completely different this time around. The mad rush to reach completion was replaced by an easy rhythm to just _feel_. Feel his lips everywhere and not stopping him this time when he settled between her legs. Feel the muscles of his chest contract under her fingertips when she rode him. Feel the timbre of his voice against her neck when he whispered sweet nothings to her, most of them in a language she didn’t quite understand. Just _feel_ , as the excuse of needing a distraction was no longer valid.

Omera also made sure he fell asleep before her this time, one hand against his chest and the other in his hair. Predictably though, when she woke up again they were on opposite sides of the bed – as two people who hadn’t been with anyone for a long time, they wouldn’t automatically gravitate towards each other during the night. But that meant she was cold, as he’d also stolen most of the covers. Instead of following her first instinct and pulling at the comforter to go back to sleep, she checked the time and realized that she needed to get a move on. She was supposed to pick up Winta at her friend’s at eleven, and the low winter sun was just rising behind the blinds they hadn’t closed.

She dressed quietly, remembering that her sweater was still in the living room, but looking at Din she realized she probably didn’t need to be so cautious, as he looked completely dead to the world. That was good – the man needed rest, but she didn’t want to leave without letting him know either. That would be a bit…harsh.

In the end, she didn’t have to start wondering if she should leave a note – but that seemed just as harsh, if not worse – as he woke up with a groan as she was tying her shoes.

“What’s wrong?” he grumbled, hair standing every which way.

“I need to go, I have to pick up Winta in a few hours,” she whispered back, hoping he’d get back to sleep after she left – it was still early.

He looked comically confused for a few seconds, then nodded. “Right. Are you…okay to drive?”

“Of course I’m okay to drive, I drove here, didn’t I?” she remarked, standing up.

“When are you going to see Santi?” she asked to disperse the puzzlement on his face – Din was definitely not a morning a person.

“This afternoon,” he replied.

“Enjoy your time with him, you deserve it,” Omera told him, allowing her fingers to slide through his hair. He closed his eyes and nodded, and she had to remind herself to leave before it became too difficult.

“Omera?” Din said just as she was about to exit his bedroom. “Text me when you’re home?” he asked, his voice still raspy with sleep but his tone serious.

“Of course,” she replied with an easy smile. “If you promise to call before it gets too bad, next time.”

He grumbled and laid back down against his pillow, but she was pretty sure there had been an 'I promise' somewhere in there.


	6. Out of the blue

Din didn’t think he could move. And really, he wasn’t sure he wanted to. When he’d picked up Santi on Sunday afternoon, it had seemed acceptable to just chill out in his apartment for the rest of the day: reading books with him, building puzzles, playing with his wooden train, napping on top of his bed because the boy somehow shared his wish not to part from him for one second if he could avoid it, and ordering pizzas for dinner. Monday and Tuesday hadn’t deviated much from that vein, except for a couple of walks in the neighborhood and a trip to a coffee place he liked and where Santi always got the biggest chocolate muffin they had. For someone who was easily bored, Din had to say that this ‘resting’ thing wasn’t that bad. Especially when he had Santi to distract him.

Come Wednesday though, he realized that he needed to do some shopping. And not _any_ kind of shopping, no. His son needed a big boy bed. He kept escaping his cot in the morning when he didn’t come and get him early enough, and he was worried he’d hurt himself one of these days. He required other things too, like a bookcase to keep his growing collection. Or an extra drawer unit for his clothes. Which meant only one place: Ikea.

He’d gone once already shortly after moving in – but that was without Santi. And when he finally put the kid in the blue store cart, he had a sudden flashback of their trip to Walmart back in July, and the shudder that took over his body was almost strong enough to make him turn around.

Fast forward 6 and a bit hours later, and he was lying down on his living room floor after having gone through the epic journey to the store – with an overexcited toddler who wanted to jump on all the mattresses on display and buy all the plushies – and building the boy’s bed, bookcase and chest of drawers. He was now in the process of assembling the TV bench he’d also bought – it was still missing a TV, but that would be for tomorrow – and he thought he deserved a break. His back was playing an awful number on him and Santi had hidden some of the screws and bolts he needed to build the fucking thing. _Again_. He didn’t have the courage to run after him this time. So he’d decided to lie there and admire his ceiling, thank you very much.

“Nap time, dada?” queried the curly head appearing in his line of vision.

A _nap_. That sounded good. Of course there had been too much excitement going around for him to manage to put the kid down for a couple of hours today. Especially when he was replacing his bed and his new linens were still in the dryer in the building’s laundry.

“Do you want us to go take a nap on my bed?” he asked hopefully. That was a bad habit he’d started, but the bed was huge and it felt nice to have him next to him, his little breaths always pulling him to sleep in record time.

“No,” the boy answered simply.

_Of course not._

“Then dada is going to stay right there until you bring him back the packet you stole from the cardboard box, _pequeño ladrón_ ,” he intoned fake seriously, grabbing the child by his sides and raising him over his head.

“ _No soy un pequeño ladrón_ , dada,” replied his son with a giggle.

“Oh yes, you are a little thief, Santiago. And I think that means I deserve to tickle you,” he proclaimed, lowering the boy to his chest and proceeding to exact his revenge.

“No, dada!” chuckled the two-year-old and Din just managed to stop before they were both out of breath. So much for a nap he thought, as he slowly stood up with his son draped over his shoulder, screeching in delight. And so much for taking it easy on his back, he grumbled internally.

“Right, let’s go get your linens downstairs and make your bed, and then you are going to show me where you put those bolts and screws,” he said to the child, who was barely listening.

“Otherwise I can’t build the bench and we can’t have a TV,” he tried to reason with him.

“It’s a secret, dada,” replied the child in his arms as they were making their way to the basement.

“Don’t you want to watch some cartoons?” he asked him.

“ _¡Sí!_ The one with the mouses and the little boy and the big birds.”

“The mice,” he corrected automatically. “And yes, we’ll have to get that one,” Din agreed, making a note to himself that they needed to go to that second-hand DVD store where he had already got _Back to the Future_ for Winta.

Santi eventually ‘allowed’ him to have the missing parts he needed to build the bench, and once it was set up and after an exciting trip to the recycling bins to dispose of the numerous cardboard boxes – the boy was allowed to keep _one_ to play with – it was almost 7PM and Din tried not to feel too guilty about ordering pizzas again. He just couldn’t contemplate the idea of cooking anything. And he’d got Santi to munch on some baby carrots while they were waiting for their order, so it was fine, right?

The good thing about having a new bed – and a couple of new plushies and night lights he hadn’t resisted buying – was that Santi didn’t put up a fight when he decided that it was time for him to sleep. The boy actually seemed just as tired as he was and it only took two stories for him to close his eyes. Still, Din sat next to him for a while afterwards, and tried not to lament too much over the fact that his son was growing so quickly. But he reassured himself by noting how tiny he still looked in his bigger bed.

He lay down for a while on the living room couch – he’d let the boy choose a few throw pillows, as he knew how much he liked playing with them at Omera’s place and he tried not regretting his decision when looking at the clashing colors – and let his mind wander for a bit. He just about stopped himself from wondering again if the figure he saw in Sacramento’s airport was indeed who he thought it was. He’d also consciously tried not to think too much about _that_ night either, but it was difficult. True to her words, she had texted him on Sunday morning when she’d arrived home, and he’d replied with a quick ‘Thanks, have a nice day’ or such drivel before promptly falling back to sleep. But now he regretted not calling her. He’d been tempted, several times, but an unpleasant realization would always stop him at the last minute: ‘What are you going to say to her anyway?’.

Din was torn. Part of him just wanted to _thank_ her for having been there that night when he’d felt particularly dispirited, while another part wondered if he should _apologize_. He’d initiated things. _Both times_. And come morning he’d selfishly expected her to stay. But she couldn’t. She had a life. She had a daughter. Had he pressured her in any way? Did she regret things? He wasn’t _completely_ inept and knew that they had been heading in that direction for a while but… Had that been the right time? Was there _ever_ a right time?

And through all his doubts, he obviously hadn’t called, preferring to let himself be distracted by his son’s presence – which was very easy indeed. He was also quite sure that calling a woman he had just slept with to say either ‘thank you’ or ‘sorry’ or both wouldn’t be warmly welcomed. He’d have to figure it out sooner or later, though. But clearly not tonight. And before he could let his mind wander _too far_ , he stood up, and went for a shower – a cold one – before going to bed.

Din managed to be productive the next morning, as Santi woke up ridiculously early and didn’t hesitate to rush to his bed to let him know, and come the afternoon he was the proud owner of a new TV and stereo, and he had also stopped to buy _actual_ food. He’d never bought new appliances in his life, rather relying on second or third hand, or fixing the ones he found on the curb when he could. He’d gone through so many ‘pinch himself’ moments already in the last nine months that finally having a salary that allowed him to buy decent things no longer threw him as much as it had in the past.

And the last three weeks of crazy work hours covering the JFK flight on top of his own schedule meant that a sizeable bonus was waiting for him at the end of the month. He’d completely exploded his flying hours’ quota, but then his bosses had no one else to rely on on such short notice, and would have needed to cancel flights if he hadn’t stepped in. It had allowed him to see how much he could push them and bend the rules. That was something he had always done – when he was able to think about it with a clear head, he realized that it was simply his survival instinct. With everything that the gang had him do before (and after) he joined the military, it was always _safer_ to know where the limits lay. It wasn’t that different from Santi checking how far he could have his way before he put his foot down.

Except Santi wanted to know how long he could run around the apartment naked after his bath, and back when he was a young teenager it was how many punches he had to receive before it was acceptable to cry out in pain and not appear to be a wimp.

Still, his bosses had been categorical that he needed a week long break, and he’d complained at first, but now he appreciated it. And not just because it meant he could spend time with Santi. He had been _exhausted_ , stupidly so, which was one more reason that made him doubt his decisions regarding the whole sleeping with Omera thing.

That being said, he was pretty sure his subconscious had already decided that everything would be fine, because as he was selecting Walt Disney DVDs for Santi in the second-hand store, he also picked up films that he thought Winta would enjoy.

So they had homemade chili that evening and they watched the first half of _Ratatouille_ before Santi fell asleep – he’d managed to convince the boy to watch something other than _The Rescuers Down Under_ again – and Din started to feel a bit better. That sentiment was heightened the next day when a call from I.G. informed him that although the case worker was coming to pick up Santi this afternoon, he’d be allowed to have him again the following weekend, and hopefully all the weekends after that until the judge came to his senses. Strangely enough, it seemed that the ICE scare had worked in their favor: the DHS center had been taken by surprise, and with the young lawyer citing how ‘traumatic’ that episode had been for all involved parties (which wasn’t that far off the mark) the judge assigned to their case in Family Court had started to take more interest in their plight.

For that reason, Din wasn’t too bitter when Peli came to pick up Santi early that evening – he’d noticed she arrived later than usual, which allowed him more time with the boy. She also stayed for coffee again, and they talked for a little while – he’d known since the start that her heart was in the right place, and it was nice to have one more person rooting for him and fighting his corner. He kissed Santiago’s forehead in the backseat of her car to say goodbye, and for the first time there were no tears. For the first time, Din allowed himself to think that maybe they had reached the end of the tunnel and that there wouldn’t be too many other goodbyes.

Since he didn’t have to report back to work until Monday, he found himself bored once more come Saturday morning. It was too foggy and cold for a run, even if today was supposed to be the first day of Spring, so he went to the gym instead. But halfway through his set, he realized that his newfound boost of confidence regarding Santi meant something else. He should go see Omera. Not just call her, no. Drive there. And talk to her face to face. So following a quick shower, he found himself on the Interstate before he could change his mind.

Only when he finally parked across her house did he allow himself to think that maybe, _just maybe_ , she was busy. Or didn’t want to see him. Or…

“Din!” Winta welcomed him happily as she was coming out of the house. “Is Santi with you? Have you come to help mom paint the kitchen? I’m going to Sara’s birthday party right now, but you’ll be there when I’m back, right?”

Even after all this time, he was still often flummoxed by Winta’s never-ending questions, but if this meant delaying speaking to Omera for a couple of minutes – she’d just appeared on the porch – then that was probably for the best, and it would give him extra time to figure out what the _hell_ he was going to tell her, as the two-hour drive hadn’t helped in that matter.

“Santi isn’t with me, no. I just spent the whole week with him but I’ll have him again next Saturday,” he told her, leaning against his car door.

“So maybe you can come again next weekend and we’ll celebrate my birthday with him!” the young girl suggested, smiling widely.

“It’s your birthday next weekend?”

“No, it’s on Monday. But today is Sara’s birthday and we’ve been friends since we were four so we always celebrate our birthdays together. Her house has a bigger garden so it’s usually at her place, but it would still be cool if you and Santi could be there next weekend and we’ll have cake here too,” Winta explained in her rapid-fire speech.

“Why not? I’ll check with your mom first,” Din replied, unsure yet how that would go.

“Okay, I gotta run, Tommy’s dads are picking me up at the end of the track. Don’t leave before I’m back!” she all but ordered, rushing on the path. Din didn’t know how he was supposed to tell her that he didn’t have much power on the being there when she was back thing – this was all in Omera’s hands and would depend on how badly (or not) he made an ass of himself.

Din turned towards her once Winta’s silhouette had disappeared. She walked across the porch and came to lean against the wooden pole at the top of the stairs. She copied his stance – crossed arms and raised shoulders – but there was a small smile on her face, and Din realized he shouldn’t feel so awkward in her presence. He laughed nervously and stood up properly.

“Winta said you were painting the kitchen?” he asked, thinking this was safe enough territory.

“It’s like you have a sixth sense or something. Anytime housework is needed, you magically appear,” she noted.

“I can definitely help you out if you want. Move furniture or…”

“Is that why you came here?” Omera interrupted him, a faint smile still gracing her lips, but her eyes unreadable.

“It was more a spur of the moment decision,” Din admitted, swallowing hard. _Why hadn’t he rehearsed this?_

“A two-hour drive spur of the moment?” she pressed, and he shrugged.

“I had Santi with me for the last few days and it was great, but now he’s back at the home until next weekend and I don’t have any flights until Monday.”

“So you were bored?” Omera translated, and Din started to nod before he realized that it might not be the right answer.

“I wanted to call…before,” he confessed. “During the week. But the days pass a lot quicker when Santi’s there, and…”

“I wanted to call, too,” she replied, her tone softer. “I just wasn’t sure when would be the right time since I knew you had your son with you.”

“Anytime. You can call anytime, it’s fine,” he told her truthfully. “We didn’t do much but it was probably what I needed. What we both needed.”

“You do look rested for once,” she noted, and Din smiled ruefully, his hands sliding over his unshaven cheeks. Shaving was the first thing he forego when he wasn’t working, and with Santi added to the mix, he wasn’t sure he would have found the time anyway. Now he regretted it slightly and hoped he didn’t look too much like a slob.

He took in a deep breath, and ordered his thoughts – he’d come here for a reason, she was right.

“I wanted to tell you that it meant a lot to me that you were there last Saturday. Thank you. I think I lost the plot for a bit and I’m sorry if I seemed off. But having you there…helped,” Din rushed in to say, managing to both say ‘thank you’ and ‘sorry’ in the same sentence. He’d wanted to avoid it, knowing how crass it might sound if interpreted badly, but he decided to be sincere and say what he actually felt, rather than come up with what she might want to hear.

Din tentatively looked up. He saw Omera sigh and close her eyes. But whether it was a good reaction or not, he couldn’t say. Until she opened her eyes again.

“I’m glad you feel that way,” she replied in a breath, looking relieved. “I felt so bad for having to leave so quickly in the morning…”

“Of course you had to,” he interrupted her softly. “You had to get to Winta, I couldn’t expect you to stay,” he reasoned, even if part of him _had_ selfishly wished for it.

“Still, I’m sorry too,” she added.

They’d now both said they were sorry – the fact that _she_ had felt the need to do so boggled the mind – but the conversation hadn’t gotten easier, far from it. The bigger question remained: did she regret it? He _might_ regret the circumstances, yes. But not that it had happened.

“Are you going to stay outside in the cold or are you going to come in?” she eventually asked after he stayed silent for too long.

“To help you paint the kitchen?” he wondered, half serious.

“Not necessarily,” Omera replied, walking to the door and apparently expecting him to follow. “We probably have a couple of hours before Winta returns and it would be silly to waste them _painting_.”

He tried not to trip on the stairs as he climbed up the porch.

* * *

Din rolled over on the bed and sighed. His mind had blissfully gone blank and he didn’t want to come down just yet. Even if a tiny, _tiny_ part of him had hoped that it would happen again when he’d made the two-hour journey, he hadn’t expected that it would only take walking through the door for Omera to start kissing him and lead him to her room. “My bed,” she had simply said, mirroring his words from a week ago.

“How much time do we have before Winta comes back?” he mumbled against the soft mattress.

“Probably not enough for round two if you want to take your time,” she replied, her tone a lot more alert than his, annoyingly. That being said, if she kept stroking him there, then round two wouldn’t be a problem. He’d even settle for a rushed one, although it was true that he preferred to savor these moments.

He grumbled and slid closer to her, her hand thankfully moving up to his chest. Quickly though, he had to physically restrain himself from pulling away – he still wasn’t comfortable with her seeing his scars, and he hadn’t missed her annoyed look earlier when he’d only agreed to remove his T-shirt at the last minute. Somehow sensing his distress, Omera’s palm journeyed onwards and eventually settled against his cheek.

“Hey,” she said, curling a leg around him and pressing her forehead to his.

“Hey,” he replied, getting lost in the tender gesture and forgetting about his unease.

“You okay?” she asked, her brow furrowed.

He answered with a kiss and that seemed to satisfy her as she smiled against his lips and playfully bumped her nose to his.

“We can have round two tonight instead,” she whispered, not moving.

“Hmm,” he tentatively agreed, as he didn’t particularly feel like leaving her bed just yet. “Admit it: you engineered this so that I’d help you paint the kitchen. Why are you painting it by the way? It looked fine to me.”

“I just felt like it. And I need you to stay tomorrow as well because Winta has some math homework,” Omera added with a smirk, ruffling his hair.

“I feel used,” he complained mock seriously, his hands sliding over the soft skin of her back.

“In a good way or in a bad way?” she asked against his lips before kissing him again – this was getting too distracting.

“Who cares, I’ve clearly lost this battle,” he mumbled, chasing her mouth with his. She rolled on top of him for better access and with her beautiful body draped over his he felt like anything _but_ a loser.

They managed to appear busy painting when Winta came back, but it had been a close call. Thankfully, the girl didn’t comment on the fact that they had barely started. They had a late dinner in the living room to escape the smell of paint, but at least the first coat was done.

Winta wanted to know everything about the last airports he’d landed at – her eyes widened dramatically when he told her how busy the four runways could get at JFK and how there was actually a specific simulator pilots had to train with to learn how to navigate them. Din avoided telling her that landing in war torn countries where there was no actual runway made it seem pretty easy in comparison, though.

She kept asking questions about Santi next to delay being sent to bed – he was getting used to her ways by now – and didn’t resent her. After all, she hadn’t seen the boy for a month.

“So you’re both coming next weekend, you promise?” she made sure again, as her mother asked her to go brush her teeth for the third time.

“Yes, I promise,” he said, spying a quick look at Omera who didn’t dissuade him. “And I’ll be there tomorrow too: the kitchen needs a second coat of paint and we can check out your math homework together if you want.”

“That would be cool, thanks! What flights do you have next week, do you know already?”

“Winta…” warned Omera.

“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” Din hedged. Winta grumbled but accepted his answer and went upstairs.

“Sorry,” Omera said, once her daughter was out of earshot. “She’s been asking about you and Santi a lot more since we saw you in Seattle.”

“It’s fine, I don’t mind,” he told her honestly.

“She really liked that weekend we spent there.”

“Yeah? I’m glad,” he replied, touched.

“And on that subject, I’m getting her some tickets to see a hockey game next month for her birthday. It’s on a Saturday. Do you think it would be okay for us to come back?”

“There’s a NHL team in Seattle?” he asked, puzzled.

“Well no, not yet. It’s for the Seattle Thunderbirds, they’re a junior team, but I know she’ll enjoy it.”

“Of course you can come,” he quickly replied. “And if I’m at work for any reason, I’ll give you the keys to the apartment, it’s not a problem.”

Omera nodded, pleased yet slightly surprised at his easy acceptance, and he wondered what had made her doubt he’d say yes.

“Although if I’m to trust I.G., I should have Santi with me every weekend moving forward,” he added.

“That’s wonderful!” Omera marveled, and he recounted what the lawyer had told him on the phone the day before. Saying it out loud again made it even more real for him: they were almost there, he _had_ to believe it. She took his hand in hers and he was reminded of that night again, when I.G. called and he had been bracing himself for bad news. The _worst_ news. He’d clung to her like a lifeline, his reaction surprising him. Din usually dealt with everything that was thrown at him, good or bad – usually bad – on his own. That was how he’d always functioned.

Hoping this overwhelming feeling would soon go away and let him breathe properly again, he pulled at Omera’s hand and she came willingly to his arms. He sighed against her neck and closed his eyes. With her palms running slow circles on his back, he slowly settled. One more thing he could definitely get used to if he let it.

Din woke up to pale morning light – Omera never closed her blinds so that she could wake up with the sun – and a feeling of overwhelming warmth, thanks to the thick comforter around him and last night memories slowly coming back to his consciousness. He’d asked if he should go sleep in the guest room for Winta’s sake – although at that point he’d already been pleasantly sleepy and sated with her legs draped over his – and she’d dramatically rolled her eyes at him and used the word ‘absurd’. So he’d stayed put. And when she told him that her daughter had already pointedly asked her several times, with growing insistence and interest, if they were girlfriend and boyfriend, he’d tried to appear as unconcerned as her but apparently failed spectacularly, as Omera had to reassure him that it was fine and simply meant Winta cared deeply for him and his son. But that didn’t help at all. On the contrary. And it took him a while to fall asleep after that, even with Omera’s slowing breaths next to him.

This morning though, it felt like one more source of warmth. Up until the woman sharing her bed with him decided to roll over and press against his back, her feet coming to rest between his claves. They were _ice cold_ , and he grumbled audibly.

“That’s what you get for trekking all the way across the mattress and taking the comforter with you,” she mumbled against his neck.

“Sorry,” he replied automatically, and tried not to shudder. He hadn’t noticed doing it but it would probably take him a while to learn to share a bed.

“Just warm me up,” Omera asked, pressing a quick kiss in his hair and looping her right arm around his chest. Din gripped her hand and did his best to do just that.

He didn’t know how long they simply lay there. Perhaps they fell back to sleep for a while, he wasn’t sure. What he did know was that Omera’s body slowly warmed up behind him, and her hand started moving with more purpose against his skin. It was easier to ignore his first impulse to pull away when he was still so sleepy. Somehow, her mapping his scars when he was in that in-between state wasn’t so bad. Until her palm reached a particularly crude one that curled around his belly button and it immediately took him back to the moment he’d got it. He was sixteen again and lying down in some dark alleyway in South L.A. persuaded he was going to die.

“Are there any that still cause you physical pain?” asked Omera calmly, her hand moving up to a safer spot at the center of his chest, over his wildly beating heart.

“No,” Din admitted, gulping, forcing himself to breathe normally. “Some I actually don’t feel at all. The nerve endings never really grew back or something. A surgeon told me it was normal and could happen,” he continued – talking about it seemed to help.

“Mmmh,” she replied, agreeing.

“Any you got when you were serving?” she asked after a beat, having understood without being told that the one he’d strongly reacted to didn’t come from that period in his life.

“Some,” he said, “but not many.”

“Which ones?” she pressed gently, her voice soft and easy against his neck.

Din sighed but took her hand in his again and led it to his right side, close to his ribs, where there were two thin but long scars. They had healed well, resulting from proper surgery.

“They had to put in chest tubes there to treat a traumatic pneumothorax about…ten years ago,” he remembered.

“What happened?”

“I crash landed a Black Hawk. It’s a big helicopter,” he clarified.

“Jesus…” Omera breathed out, her palm stopping its slow movement over the two scars.

“It’s okay, the 11 combat troops managed to jump out shortly after we were hit. It was just me and the engineer when it crashed, and we both came out of it alive,” he tried to reassure her. Not very well apparently, as she hugged him closer to her chest.

“You asked,” he reminded her with a forced laugh, and instead of replying with words she pushed his shoulders against the mattress and climbed on top of him.

And then she proceeded to wake him up in a _much_ different way. Kissing, licking and biting her way down. She never lingered on one spot for long which meant he never had time to react badly to her touching a particular scar. Soon though, she wasn’t focusing on his chest, and Din forgot about his discomfort. He forgot about pretty much everything, if he was being honest. So he forced himself to start thinking about other things. Like going for a run. Or adding another coat of paint in the kitchen. Which reminded him that they probably wouldn’t have an opportunity like this until at least the following weekend, if not later, as he’d have to take care of Santi, and it seemed like a waste to leave it at that. Even if that particular waste felt like the best thing ever and his mind kept fighting his body to stop her before it was too late.

“Wait…” he finally managed to say, and her lips slowly released him. “I want, I want…”

“What do you want?” she asked, rising above him.

_For her to continue doing just that. For her to stop. Either. Both._

But she got his meaning when he blindly reached for the box of condoms, and soon she was surrounding him and he sighed in pleasure again. He lasted just long enough for her to join him and the resulting feeling of euphoria stayed with him on his subsequent run, when they added a second coat of paint to the kitchen walls, when he helped Winta with her math homework, when Omera languidly kissed him goodbye, and especially when he looked at himself in the mirror that night after his shower and the sight of his scars didn’t disgust him for the very first time.

* * *

Predictably, his feeling of bliss didn’t last. And that thing that he had chosen to ignore and relegated to the back of his mind reared its ugly head and bit him in the ass when he least expected it.

It was two weeks later, and he’d just said goodbye to Cara after having enjoyed a soda and a chat at their regular Sacramento airport bar. That had been one of his many mistakes, he realized afterwards. He shouldn’t have regular _anything_. Even nine months later. He’d gotten careless. Unbelievably so. Din could therefore only blame himself when Qin tackled him to the ground before he’d reached his terminal. And even if he’d expected such words, they still shook him to his very core and reminded him why he had never formed attachments in the past.

“Once I’m done with you, we’re gonna get all of them, Mando. That boy of yours, your chick, and her daughter. That’s what you deserve.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Needless to say, the following chapters will be more action packed... Thank you, as always, for your kudos and comments!


	7. And into the black

“What the _fuck_ happened?”

It was 2AM, and Cara was tired. She’d been on the phone with pretty much everybody and it was the first time she was able to speak with Din alone since… Well, since he kicked the shit out of some punk and had to be dragged away by airport security. She’d only caught the end of the fight, alerted by the sudden raised voices as she was making her way out of the airport, and she couldn’t believe her eyes at first. Surely this wasn’t Din, the man she’d just had a drink with, who’d seemed the most relaxed and easy going ever – which was saying a lot when it came to him.

And yet here he’d been, on the floor, punching the living daylights out of some seemingly random dude who kept laughing as he was doing it. The maniacal laugh could still be heard as he was being picked up by airport goons, his face bleeding. “I got you Mando, I got you good!” he had yelled. Cara saw another kind of mania when she’d looked in Din’s eyes, as if he was only now registering what had happened. And he had words for her too: “Get some people to go check on Santi at the center and Omera and Winta. Tell them to stay there and protect them,” he rushed in to say as he was letting himself be escorted by airport security guards. Cara tried to intervene with her badge, but the desperate look in Din’s eyes and his repeated pleas to check on the three people he held dear finally convinced her that she had enough information for now to proceed. That and the name the thug had used. _It looked like her old case had to be reopened._

“Is that a rhetorical question?” grumbled Din, bringing her back to the present.

He looked just as tired as she was, sitting stiffly in a plastic chair with a lukewarm coffee in front of him, his back clearly bothering him. It seemed like his attacker had gotten a few well-aimed kicks and punches in as well, then. His eyes, on the other hand, were still the same: focused, and more than a little bit scary.

“Not really,” she replied, sitting in front of him.

“No news from the DHS home or Omera’s place?” he pressed.

“You’ve asked me ten times already – they’re all fine. And yes, the surveillance cars will stay put for now,” she added, knowing it was going to be his follow-up question.

When she’d finally been granted entry at the airport security office following a call to her boss, she’d found Din being questioned by the police officers who had been called in, but they didn’t seem to be much of a threat to him – she knew he was an expert in interrogations, after all. He’d point plant asked her if everybody was okay, interrupting a cop who was repeating a question for the third time when she’d entered the room, and she’d nodded.

In the end, since neither of them was pressing charges and the mystery man – Qin, she’d learned – had been the one assaulting Din in the first place, the officers had no reason to hold him up any longer. And they got busy enough when they realized that the ‘excessive force’ used by the Delta airline pilot had been targeted at a just-released convict, who seemed completely unfazed at being arrested for violating the terms of his probation from what Cara had seen.

“Are you going to talk to me now?” she huffed.

Din shrugged, and looked around him. They were still in the airport security building. She’d been granted the use of this non-descript room as a favor.

“My boss has been pestering me non-stop,” Cara continued. “She wants to know why the _Norteños_ gang was never mentioned in all our interviews. That guy was _Norteños_ , right?”

“Why are you asking me this if you already know the answer?” he replied loftily.

 _Christ_ , she’d forgotten how snappy and uncooperative he could be, and it brought her back to the very start of her investigation, when he’d still been hesitant to share anything and would rebel at any show of strength from various FBI officials, her included. Cara thought they were past this. They were _friends_ now.

“M…Din,” she started again, just managing to correct herself – he’d become Mando again in her head, and his dark stare told her he knew exactly what she’d been tempted to call him. “I just want to help,” she promised, hoping her sincerity would be enough.

“I just had my own boss on the phone,” he said, unperturbed. “Obviously the plane flew back without me, good thing we had a second officer on board. I didn’t have any other flights planned until Tuesday morning, but he wants to see me on Monday in his office.”

“That sounds…reasonable,” Cara replied carefully.

“Don’t you see what I’ve done? I played right into Qin’s hand, like always.”

“I don’t understand. What are you saying?” she frowned.

“I wonder if it’s all over social media already. Did you see people filming the fight?”

“Huh, no,” she recalled.

“Doesn’t matter, the police officers were kind enough to remind me that they had everything on tape. Qin didn’t pick a very discreet spot for the scene.”

“The scene?” Cara was lost.

“It was all a set-up. Qin knew exactly how easy it would be to goad me. How long do you think it’s going to take the bosses to fire me once they see the images? If they haven’t already. For fuck’s sake, I was wearing my uniform, can you imagine the negative publicity?” Din loudly voiced out.

“Maybe it won’t get out,” she hedged, knowing that in this day and age, it wasn’t very likely. There had been a lot of onlookers present – it was an airport on a Friday evening, of course it had been crowded. Din predictably huffed in reply.

“He jumped on you first, you were defending yourself,” Cara tried again. She hadn’t seen the start of the fight, but she had watched the so-called tape, nicely provided by airport security officers. You could clearly see the moment Din ‘snapped’. Sound wasn’t provided, but it looked like Qin had said something to him just before it happened. She could only guess what it was, but she was pretty sure it had to do with Santi, Omera and her daughter, given the first words he had said to her afterwards.

“If I lose this job, I lose everything else, Cara,” he reminded her, his tone softer but just as compelling. “Especially if the rest comes out. They’ll never let me adopt Santi after that.”

“The rest _won’t_ come out,” she vowed, her own stare hardening. “But you _have_ to help me. You have to talk to me. Only then I can help you.”

Din lowered his head to his arms on the table and sighed deeply, then winced when he pressed against his face. His back was not the only issue.

“Have you seen a doctor?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” he predictably answered.

“Why did Qin orchestrate all this then let himself be arrested?” Cara tried again after a while, changing tactics.

“Qin doesn’t give a shit”, he mumbled against his arms. “He spent half his life in jail and he’ll be welcomed back like a king, I’m sure. Many gang members are happy to do their dealing on the inside and he’s no different.”

“He’d just been released from prison, I read some of his file. He promised the judge he was a changed man looking for redemption during his probation hearing.”

“Yeah, right…” Din chuckled darkly.

“Once a gangster, always a gangster… So whatever he said to you to get you so riled up, other people are going to try to enforce it, is that it?”

Din tensed at her words, but she had him there. She didn’t like guilt-tripping him, but she knew from experience that it was sometimes the only way to make him talk.

“If you want us to keep watching over your son and Omera, you’re gonna have to tell us why.”

That was low, and she felt terrible, but the look in his eyes when he slowly raised his head from the table told her she hadn’t needed to say it – he knew this already. She could still read danger in there, but it was slowly being replaced by a stark, naked kind of fear.

“I have to call I.G. back,” he said, swallowing hard. “He said it might be best if Santi stayed at the home this weekend and that he’d invent something believable to explain why I can’t pick him up, but now I’m not so sure. I think he’d be safer with me, I can protect him.”

“Din…” she said, trying to grab his hand over the table – skin torn and bloodied from his fight – but he pulled away, his eyes unfocused.

“I can’t stay here, I need to go back to Seattle,” he uttered, standing up quickly, his chair clattering to the floor. Cara copied his movement and rushed to his side before he could reach the door.

“Din, listen to me…”

“Am I under arrest?” he interrupted her. Cara had placed her hands on his arms and she could feel his muscles trembling with pent-up energy under her palms.

“No,” she admitted, but didn’t budge, although she could tell that he wouldn’t hesitate to use force to get out of this room. And then just as quickly, his whole demeanor changed, and he lowered the arms that he had just raised to push her away.

“I fucked up, Cara… I fucked up so badly,” he mumbled, turning his back on her and running his hands through his hair, scraping his scalp furiously. “And if anything, _anything at all_ happens to them, it will all be my fault.”

Cara didn’t know what to say or do. She was tempted to reach out to him and place a reassuring hand on his shaking back, but she wasn’t sure it would be appreciated.

“I should have known it was gonna happen, I should have known there was no point trying to escape this, I…” his voice broke, but he took in a deep shuddering breath and finally released his hair. He turned towards her slowly, his emotions barely under control.

“I need to fix this,” he told her bluntly.

“And I can help you with that,” she repeated, making herself look as unthreatening as possible, which wasn’t easy.

“I don’t know where to start, and I.G. told me I shouldn’t tell you anything without a lawyer present. I can’t go to jail,” Din replied, his words escaping in short bursts.

It was the first time she actually heard him say it. Him realizing that he shouldn’t go to jail, as he’d probably end up dead in a matter of days, if not less. Well, he said he _couldn’t_ not that he _didn’t want to_ , but it was still progress.

“You’re not telling the FBI, you’re telling _me_. Let me worry about the repercussions for now, and just disclose what I need to know to protect your family. Okay?”

He nodded slowly, and she wasn’t sure if it was her using the word ‘family’ – it had come to her easily enough – or him realizing that she was his friend, but it didn’t matter. She’d meant all of it: she’d find a way to share his info with the higher ups at the Bureau without risking his hard-won immunity.

“Okay, but can we talk and be on the move? I need to get out of here,” he added, and it was her turn to nod.

There was no direct flight to Seattle from Sacramento until the following evening, so she decided to drive them to San Francisco for the 7AM SFO to Sea-Tac United flight. Din didn’t even grumble at the mention of the rival airline company. While she drove, he talked. And throughout the ninety minutes journey, she learned quite a lot. About how the _Norteños_ gang was affiliated to _Nuestra Familia_ and his ‘collaborations’ with them in the past. About their boss Ran and the unhinged siblings Qin and Xi’an. About him picking up a tail after leaving Bolinas in July and calling the helpline to have them arrested near Crater Lake National Park. About the other silhouettes he saw in the van and didn’t know.

Come 6AM, Cara was certain of two things as she was relating what she could to her boss before they boarded the plane: her place was back in Seattle with her investigation and there would definitely be some action. Those people didn’t sound like they were messing about, and Din was right to worry. He was tensed during the two hour flight. She could see that the left side of his face was starting to swell and that he’d probably have a black eye soon, but she didn’t think he even noticed the pain. In any case, she refrained from asking how he was again. They stayed quiet, as it wasn’t really the right place to talk about gang related matters, and neither of them slept, even if it would have probably been a good idea.

When they landed, Din went to pick up the stuff he had left on the plane he _hadn’t_ flown back and change out of his uniform, which indeed looked the worse for wear following his fight. He’d offered to drop her off at the FBI building. She needed her case files to try and figure out if anyone had investigated the leads that had been given to the helpline put up for the manhunt in July. Cara also had to lay her hands on the arrest reports from the state police in Oregon – hopefully, they existed somewhere, and she’d discover who was with Qin and Xi’an on that day.

Din was just wrapping up a call when he rejoined her, and they walked towards the parking lot.

“I.G.?” she queried, and he nodded.

“He convinced me to let Santi remain at the home for now,” he replied, and Cara could tell that the argument hadn’t been one that the lawyer had won easily. “You’re maintaining surveillance there, right?”

“Yes,” she replied. “Boss agreed it was better to err on the side of caution for now. Same for Omera’s place.”

“I should…call her, let her know why she’s being watched,” he voiced out, his guilt unmissable.

“I did that last night already,” she told him, and he stopped in his tracks.

“What?”

“I couldn’t _not_ tell her what was happening,” Cara reasoned. “She needed to know and be aware of what could happen. To her and her daughter.”

“Right,” he agreed, teeth set, and started walking again. Guilt had been replaced by anger, mostly directed at himself. But not only.

“Promise me you won’t do anything stupid,” she said, stopping him once more by grabbing his arm.

“What do you mean?” Din asked, doing a very poor job at looking innocent.

“Don’t go looking for trouble,” she insisted. “Let me do my job.”

“Sure,” he replied easily, _too easily_ and Cara wasn’t fooled, but there wasn’t much she could do about it. Just like there was little doubt in her mind that although he wasn’t _supposed_ to have guns at his disposal any longer, he probably had several stashed somewhere. A couple probably in his car she realized as she was climbing in.

The journey to the city center was another tensed affair, and Cara was once again reminded of the man she had first met back in July when she observed Din: on his guard and ready to pounce, his eyes lingering in the mirrors whenever they made a turn. She was equally sad and angry about this realization. Sad, because she already missed the quiet, soft spoken man who’d shyly showed her a picture of his boy eating a waffle and making a mess of things on his phone just a few hours prior. And angry because part of her believed that they could have avoided all this if he’d just _talked_ about this back in the Summer. In the end, the anger won.

“Why didn’t you mention them before? You didn’t think they’d want to get even?” she blurted out.

Din sighed and gripped the steering wheel harder with his raw knuckles.

“All this time we wasted when we could have already rounded them up and…”

“You think it was easy for me?” he interrupted her with a rough voice. “Becoming the very thing I had been taught to despise, a fucking _snitch_?”

“You weren’t _snitching_ , you helped us arrest dangerous, awful people,” Cara rectified.

“Yeah, and I knew many of those people almost all my life. How would you feel if you were the one who’d sent your family to jail?”

“Din, they weren’t your family, they…”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Cara. So just… Please, don’t say anything else,” he stopped her in a calm tone that chilled her to the bone.

She focused on the road ahead of them again, and tried not to let his words trouble her too much, but it was difficult. That had never been something they had really discussed, and she wondered if he felt more comfortable talking about it with Paz or Omera. She hoped so, for his sake. That was a lot of baggage for one man.

“But don’t worry, I know what I need to do now,” he added after a while. “I have to assume that they have been watching me for a while. They know my routines, where I work, and where I go during the weekend. They know about Santi and about Omera and Winta. I’ve led them right to them.”

“We can buff up the surveillance if the threat increases,” she reasoned.

His answering look told her exactly what he thought about that.

“You can’t handle all of them on your own, you don’t even know who they all are,” Cara pointed out, hoping she’d make him see sense.

This time, his stare drifted to the glove compartment in front of her, and she was pretty sure it meant that some of his weapons were there. This had been Paz’s car at one point after all, it was very possible the vehicle was full of them.

She lingered by his open window when he dropped her off – she still wasn’t comfortable leaving him on his own, but she had to work.

“Try to get some rest and see a doctor if you don’t feel better,” she suggested, knowing it would fall on deaf ears. He inclined his head to the left and raised his eyebrows. Yeah, that’s what she thought.

“ _Please_ don’t do anything stupid,” she pleaded once more, gripping his arm resting on the doorframe. “Don’t play their game. That’s what they want, you said it yourself.”

“Once a gangster, always a gangster, you said _that_ yourself,” Din reminded her with a half-smile that felt like a punch to the guts.

“I didn’t mean it for you!” Cara quickly defended herself, but knew that the damage was already done.

“That’s okay, you were right after all,” he replied simply, then drove off, barely giving her enough time to remove her arm.

Fuck. _Fuck._ She couldn’t have handled this any worse, Cara realized as she watched his car disappear with growing unease.

* * *

Soon though, Cara didn’t have time to worry about Din. She had to focus on an investigation she had thought she was done with months ago. It was a Saturday, but she fortunately had junior agents at her disposal to help her research what she needed. She allowed herself a short nap on a sofa in the middle of the afternoon when her eyes started glazing over boring reports, and hoped that Din was also finding the time to rest – she’d soon have to put him to work, as the more she found things out, the more she had questions for him.

Come early evening, she had a better idea of who was – probably – after him, but she still needed his confirmation and know if the mugshots she had accumulated ringed any bells in his mind. Predictably, he didn’t answer her calls. The man rarely replied at the best of times, but he usually called back. Especially when she left several voicemails. She tried being sneaky and hide her number, and even called the satellite phone Paz had given him: nothing.

Trying not to let her imagination run wild with possibilities, she decided to drive to his place. She didn’t see any light on when she parked across from his apartment, and there was no answer when she rang his door. Cara tried both his phones again, then really started to worry.

“Fuck you Djarin, don’t do this!” she yelled in the car, punching her steering wheel ineffectively.

She sighed, grumbled, and decided that there was still a couple of things she could try. First, she texted Omera, who replied promptly that Din wasn’t there and she believed her, especially when she followed up with a worried message to ask if anything was wrong. Cara was pretty sure that if she were to call Paz the man would probably find a way to have an F16 fly him from Somalia, so she preferred not to risk it. That left her with one possibility that she didn’t particularly enjoy, especially as she’d had to promise the firstborn she didn’t intend to have to an IT assistant, but twenty minutes later she had a destination to drive to. One she might have actually figured out on her own after a while.

It was close to midnight when she parked, and she placed one more call as she watched the lonely silhouette sitting on the sand, barely illuminated by the scarce public lighting.

He predictably looked like shit, the bruises now stark on his face, shivering in his hoody in the early spring air, but at least he was in one piece and he didn’t seem to be any _more_ injured.

“Is that for the pain or to keep yourself warm?” she asked, sitting next to him and eyeing the tequila bottle he loosely held in his hand.

He offered it to her but she declined. His knuckles looked no better either, but she noted that he’d only put a small dent in the Patrón Silver. She knew he’d been sitting there for at least two hours, so he was showing restraint. Cara hated that fucking place. They’d both almost died there, and she couldn’t understand why he kept coming back.

“I’m guessing you didn’t rest,” he shook his head. “Or did anything to treat your injuries.” At this, he rolled his shoulders, and she heard a few bones crack then a wince.

“How did you find me?” he eventually asked in a raspy voice. But his words weren’t slurred, and she knew she had his attention.

“I had our IT team trace your phone,” she admitted.

“What?” he bellowed.

“Relax, it’s already deactivated, I promise. It wasn’t very legal in the first place. I just needed to find you, make sure you were okay,” she replied softly, and he deflated.

“I don’t have much to report,” Din said, looking down. “At first I thought they might show up at my place, so I waited there. Then I drove to the DHS home, nothing. Same at Omera’s. I saw the surveillance cars, but they weren’t that obvious, so I don’t know if that threw them or if they’re just fucking with me and playing the waiting game.”

He sighed and hugged his knees to his chest. He was more Din than Mando at the moment, and she felt terrible for the words she had used that morning.

“I didn’t mean what I said. I don’t think you’re a gangster. I don’t think you ever really were,” Cara felt compelled to say.

He laughed mirthlessly and looked at the tequila bottle in his free hand. She wondered what he’d meant to do. Maybe drink himself to a stupor and park his car close to Omera’s house to forget about his bruises and woes for a little while.

“Whatever I am or _was_ , it’s not gonna make much difference to my bosses.”

Cara had almost forgotten about that other issue he faced. In his mind, everything was about to crumble. If he lost his job, he’d have a hard time finding a judge who’d accept his petition to adopt Santi. Whether his past resurfaced or not.

“You really think they could fire you over a fight you weren’t responsible for in the first place?” she asked.

“I’m a bit scared to find out,” he revealed, and allowed himself a small sip of tequila. “I’m honestly more scared about this than Xi’an and whoever being after me.”

“About that, I _do_ have some pictures to show you,” Cara said.

“Oh?”

“And this Xi’an does sound completely mental, according to what I read.”

“Yeah,” he agreed easily, and shook his head.

 _Interesting_ , she thought. He looked…

“Anything to tell me about her?” Cara pressed, and he fidgeted some more.

“She’s…something, alright,” he said.

“And?”

“And a big, _massive_ mistake,” he added, and took another sip.

Cara internally rejoiced at having read his signs correctly. It was reassuring in a way to find out that he was just a human being.

“I’ve had one of those,” she disclosed. “Her name was Rachel, and she was crazy.”

He handed her the bottle again and this time she allowed herself a small sip – the quality tequila felt good going down.

“I’ll show you the pictures at Omera’s and you can tell me if you think they’re the people you saw tailing you in July.”

“At Omera’s?” he asked incredulously.

“Where did you think we were going?” she asked, standing up.

“But…”

“She’s twenty minutes away and she’s waiting for us so come on, I’ll drive.”

Din looked completely flummoxed, and she guessed that talking about his unhinged ex hadn’t helped.

“What do you mean, she’s waiting for us?” he queried, but stood up slowly.

“I called her when I arrived,” Cara told him. “She’s worried about you.”

“Why would she be worried about me?” he pressed.

“You _idiot_ , of course she would be worried about you. And I reached out to her earlier tonight when I couldn’t find you. So she’ll be happy to see you in one piece. Well, kind of,” she amended, witnessing his stiff gait as he was walking next to her.

“I’m not really sure I want her so see me like this,” he conceded, the tequila probably helping loosening his tongue.

“You’re not that bad…” she argued, as he wasn’t exactly drunk, just a bit tipsy.

“I don’t mean the alcohol, I mean…” but he stopped, and looked at his parked car.

“You mean the endangering her and her daughter thing,” she suggested, and he nodded. “I think you’ll be fine,” she told him, and he stared at her doubtfully. “But you have to talk to her. Explain it to her in your own words, she deserves it.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “She does.”

He picked up a gym bag from his car and didn’t complain that she would be the one doing the driving and that they’d have to leave his car there for the time being. He was probably over the limit, but not by that much, and could have fought her over this, but she guessed he was more tired than anything else. Cara had managed a nap and she was exhausted. She couldn’t imagine how he felt.

They drove in silence and she could see him twitch next to her. She guessed part of it was due to his still painful back that Omera was bound to ask about, and part of it was because of the gun that he had kept at his waistband and that she had pretended not to see.

“What did Qin tell you to make you snap yesterday?” she couldn’t resist asking him after a while.

“I didn’t snap,” he answered her. “That _thing_ , it’s always there. It just got…switched on again, I guess,” Din explained plainly. Cara wasn’t sure how to reply, so she didn’t. But in the back of her mind, she realized that he was probably right, and that it was probably a bit worrying.

Omera was out of her house before they had parked, and Din looked stunned that she rushed to his side to give him a fierce hug. The _idiot_. He stiffened in pain when she pressed too hard against his back and she immediately pulled away.

“You’re hurt,” she said, and it wasn’t a question. She frowned, looking at his face, and Din let himself be observed, stoic.

“Come in,” Omera said, throwing an accusing stare at her. _What?_ It wasn’t her fault that the man was a walking disaster. She _had_ mentioned the fight when she called last night to let her know about the surveillance team, of course he got hurt, it was implied!

“How much pain are you _actually_ in?” she asked Din, once they were all sat in the kitchen with warm coffee and sandwiches.

“That’s when you’re supposed to say, ‘You should see the other guy’, Din. Because I _saw_ the other guy, and…” but Cara stopped herself and drank some more coffee, as both had turned towards her with horrified expressions on their faces. They probably weren’t horrified for the same reason, as she saw Omera reach for Din’s hands and notice the split skin on his raw knuckles, then disappear with a huff.

“Sorry,” she mumbled in her cup, and Din sighed.

Few people appreciated her sense of humor – it was an acquired taste. Din had remarked once that he understood why her and Paz were together and she had tried to take it as a compliment.

Omera reappeared with a med-kit and a darker stare in her direction. She wondered if they would miss her if she discreetly slipped to her car to grab the tequila bottle Din had left there.

“You haven’t disinfected those wounds yet?” Omera asked.

“I…washed my hands,” Din replied.

She mumbled something under her breath and grabbed the bottle of disinfectant and some gauze. Din winced when she worked on him and Omera looked unapologetic. Cara wondered if coffee and tequila went well together.

“I’m gonna put band-aids on the deeper cuts, okay?”

She didn’t wait for his reply and did just that. Then she looked at his face and Din sat very still, worried that the disinfectant would also be used there, Cara was sure. Thankfully for him, there was no open wound, just a blackening eye and swollen cheek.

“Now your back. Anything else?” she pressed, and her tone brokered no argument, so Din shook his head.

“Show me then,” Omera asked, standing up. Din gulped down some coffee to delay the inevitable, and Cara decided that no, tequila was better drunk on its own. Pure. In great quantity.

Since Omera had stopped replying to her pointed questions when they texted and Din would probably explode if she ever had the nerve to ask, Cara wasn’t sure if they were actually sleeping together yet. But she got her answer quickly when she witnessed the heavy staring contest that started between them. Omera wanted to see the damage on his back and Din didn’t want to show her. They were both _extremely_ stubborn people when they set their minds to it, and Cara was tempted to leave the room for a different reason this time.

“I need to see how bad it is,” she told him.

“Not that bad,” Din replied, unmoving.

“Let’s get this over with, come on,” she urged, arms akimbo.

“Do you want me to…” Cara started, but they were not paying any attention to her. She was definitely tempted to go grab the tequila, but she was also strangely captivated by the spectacle and wanted to see who would win the contest. Omera, obviously, but Din’s struggle was interesting to watch.

He sighed and reached behind his back and Cara thought that was him capitulating but no, he was removing his gun from his waistband and placing it on the table. Omera raised her eyebrows in defiance – _you go girl!_ – and didn’t let herself be deterred from her goal. Din looked at her and Cara almost expected him to ask her to leave the kitchen but he shrugged, stood up, and raised the back of his hoodie and T-shirt. Cara could see the angry looking bruises from where she was, as well as a few interesting scars. The biggest contusion curled around his side, and Omera was careful when she touched it.

“You need to see a doctor,” she declared.

“I don’t.”

“You could be bleeding internally, your right kidney took a beating,” she stated, raising his layers higher and Cara discreetly looked away. Paz had mentioned the scars to her once, and he wasn’t kidding.

“It’s fine, I’m not peeing blood,” Din pointed out, his teeth set as her hands kept on exploring.

“That’s your frame of reference for internal bleeding?” she huffed. “A couple of your ribs might also be broken on the same side.”

“Cracked, I think,” he tempered.

“You _think_?”

“Look,” he said, lowering his clothes again and turning towards her. “By now you’ve probably realized that it’s not the first time something like this has happened to me and I’m telling you, _it’s fine_. But if I’m still in pain on Monday, I’ll go see a doctor, okay?”

Omera stared at him again, clearly unconvinced, and Din deflated slightly.

“I’m sorry, alright? I didn’t do this on purpose and I don’t want to worry you, I just…” he sighed. “Can we sit down again and talk, please? I promise you I’m okay, I’m used to this.”

Looking resigned, she sat, and Din did the same. Cara was done with her sandwich by then, and was trying not to eye Din’s half-finished one.

“You _shouldn’t_ be used to this,” Omera said and Din nodded, taking her hand in his and letting her see the band-aids she had just put there. Letting her see she had already helped. Cara realized that they were not _just_ sleeping together, they were also past that first, awkward phase. Which made her wonder how long it had been going on.

Over more coffee, they talked. Din started, then Cara added what she had learned, and the three of them tried to make sense of the situation. Din wouldn’t stop apologizing, and Omera would tell him that everything was going to be fine. That they now knew exactly who was after him and had been in the van that day – Xi’an, obviously, and two men her files referred to as Mayfeld and Burg – and that they could come up with the best strategy, together. Cara already had some ideas – old haunts where the various thugs had been spotted in the region, and her FBI tactical unit would start with that.

“I’m worried about Winta,” Din voiced.

“I know, I’m sending her to see my dad on the reservation. It’s Spring break, she actually likes going there, and she’ll be protected,” Omera told him.

Din nodded, liking that plan, then seemed to remember something. “She had that hockey game in Seattle.”

“It’s fine…” told him Omera.

“It’s not,” he interrupted. “I’m really sorry.”

“I know,” she repeated, stroking his arm. “What’s your plan for Santi?”

“Well, it depends if I still have a job on Monday…” he confided, and Omera frowned when he shared his doubts regarding his whole bad publicity stunt at Sacramento airport. She agreed with Cara that he should be able to defend his case – he’d been the one attacked – but even when it was the two of them, they didn’t manage to convince him.

It was getting late, and they were all tired. Din insisted at first that he should stay on the couch downstairs in case anything happened, and Cara had to remind him that _she_ was the FBI agent, and that the team outside was also on the lookout. Obviously, he complained, but she called to his attention that he hadn’t slept for 48 hours.

“Go shower, the warm water will do your back some good,” Omera pressed him. “I’ll be right up.”

He eventually nodded, looking utterly exhausted all of a sudden, and Cara also exited the kitchen to go grab her bag from the car. She praised herself for having remembered to pick it up from her trunk in San Francisco early that morning, and it had traveled all the way here with her.

“You okay?” she asked Din as he was also collecting his own stuff.

“Yeah,” he nodded, and she could see he meant it for once.

“You’re very lucky, you know that? Despite everything…”

“I know,” he agreed, looking at the house behind them. “I don’t deserve her.”

“That’s her call, buddy,” she reminded him, and locked her car.

Cara walked back to the kitchen where she could still hear Omera cleaning up. But she spied Din suddenly stopping as he was making his way upstairs and saw why – Winta was there. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it seemed that whatever Din had told her worked, as she agreed to walk back up with him.

“So, is he sleeping in the dog house tonight?” Cara asked to break the ice. “Or is that going to be me?”

Omera smiled slightly and stopped drying the dishes. Cara showed her what she was holding – the tequila bottle – and her raised eyebrows were explanation enough it seemed, because Omera grabbed a couple of small glasses and sat back at the table with her.

“I thought I could smell it on his breath,” she said, and accepted the generous shot.

“He didn’t have much,” Cara noted, showing her how full the bottle still was.

“More for us, then,” Omera replied, and they clinked their glasses before swallowing the liquid in one go.

“At least your man doesn’t go for the cheap liquor,” she praised, liking – and worrying over – how easily the alcohol had gone down once again. She poured them another shot, and Omera shrugged, but still accepted it. This one they sipped more slowly.

“He’s worried about losing his job and Santi more than anything else,” Omera voiced out.

“And you and Winta,” Cara added. “Yes, he is.”

“But these people sound dangerous, and from what you both told me, it’s him they’re really after.”

“Yeah, I don’t think he’ll start accepting this until he’s sure his future with Santi is secure.”

“And you think there’s a chance that he might get fired?” she asked quietly, even if Din was upstairs and unable to hear them.

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

“Anything you can do on your side?”

“What do you mean?” Cara asked, frowning.

“Well, you’re FBI, and he has immunity,” Omera started. “He helped you with your investigation in the past. A lot. You said so yourself.”

“And?”

“Couldn’t your bosses…vouch for him or something? You’re just going to sit down and let the chips fall where they may?”

“I…”

“I’m just saying,” she cut in, “I get that you’re angry with him for not disclosing this sooner. But surely he deserves a break. He has enough to worry about as it is.”

Okay, Omera was good. And without realizing it, she was reminding her how badly she had dealt with this whole thing from the start. Manipulating and accusing Din when she knew how difficult the situation was for him and how much progress he’d already made before their current setback.

“I might be able to do something,” she agreed, already starting to come up with a plan that could be useful in the long run and work in Din’s favor.

Omera smiled warmly and downed her shot.

* * *

Cara had trouble falling asleep. It wasn’t because of the sofa – that thing was actually quite comfortable. But she kept remembering Din’s haunted look at the airport when he’d realized what he’d done. And Omera’s pleas to help him. Who knew friendship could be this hard?

Din didn’t look that rested either come morning, but whatever tension there might have been between him and Omera was gone. Which was for the best, as they had agreed that he shouldn’t visit for a while. The surveillance teams would stay with Omera here and Santi at the home, Winta would be safe on the reservation, and they’d have to hope that the gang members would focus on Din. ‘Hope’ was perhaps a strong word, one she definitely hadn’t used in Omera’s presence, but she knew that Din would agree with her on this. Obviously, her role would be to make sure that the three thugs were caught before they got too close. _If_ Din allowed her to do her job properly. And that was a big if: the gun was back at his waistband, and his eyes were Mando’s eyes once again – focused, and deadly.

And yet just as quickly, he turned into Din again when Winta decided to wake up early and see them off. Cara could tell that the girl knew more than she let on, and that some of it was probably due to the talk she’d witnessed the previous night on the stairs.

“Keep both your eyes open on the reservation Winta, yeah?” he asked her, lowering himself to her level. The girl nodded seriously.

“The bad men are after you again?” the kid queried, and Din looked at Omera for guidance but she only gave him an encouraging nod.

“Yeah,” Din admitted. “But Cara will help me catch them like before.”

Cara tried not to grumble too loudly – technically, she _was_ going to be the one doing the catching. At least, she hoped so.

“You look scary again,” Winta noted, frowning.

“But good scary, right?” Din checked, and the girl nodded. Cara wondered what that conversation had been about, and Omera looked just as puzzled as she was.

“Give Santi a hug for me,” she requested, and then proceeded to show him exactly what she meant, looping her small arms around his neck. Din stayed very still at first, then hugged her back just as tight, not showing any pain.

“I will,” he promised, and the girl released him.

Omera hugged him more quickly and kissed his neck – Cara assumed that they’d had time to say their proper goodbyes before – and soon they were on their way.

“What are your plans for today?” she asked him once they were back at the beach and parked next to his car.

“I.G. is coming over,” he told her. “We’ll try to come up with a few plans for Santi.”

Cara didn’t believe he was lying to her – he’d tried to look for the _Norteños_ gang members on his own the previous day and it hadn’t worked. They were indeed playing the waiting game. His best bet if he wanted to catch them was to stay put.

“So I can come by this evening? Show you what I have?”

“Sure,” he easily agreed.

She intended to go back to the office and dig through more files: Din had told her about past jobs he’d done with Ran and his team, and she wondered if there was anything she could use to try and pinpoint his location. Bosses were notoriously harder to catch, but she had to try.

“And then you’re seeing the brass on Monday?” she recalled, and he nodded stiffly.

That was the second thing she needed to do today, and she hoped it would work.

“Remember to go see a doctor if you’re not better. This friendship thing is really a lose-lose situation for me. I have _both_ Paz and Omera on my back when you get hurt.”

He gave her a half-smile and nodded again more easily.

“What happened to my tequila?” he asked just before he closed the door behind him.

“Payment,” she replied and he raised his eyebrows in wonder but didn’t protest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The action continues next chapter! Thanks for your kudos and comments as ever.


	8. Catching up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a bit more profanity than usual, and mentions some serious subject matters, such as drug use (tags were updated).

The ceiling was actually quite pleasing, Din realized, lying down on the floor in his living room. It was starting to become a habit, and if anyone asked, he’d say he was just taking a breather. But in reality, the hard ground felt good on his painful ribs. Santi was asleep, and he was waiting for Cara to show up. The day had been full of surprises, most of them good, but it wasn’t over yet, and he had to stay on his guard – hence the gun within easy reach on the coffee table. There was eventually a knock and he stood up slowly, glad that she had remembered not to use the doorbell. On the off chance that it wasn’t her though, he picked up the Glock and looked through the peephole before opening the door.

“Hey,” she greeted him quickly and he nodded at her, noticing that she looked just as exhausted as him.

“Santi’s asleep?” Cara asked quietly as she followed him to the living room.

“Yeah,” he replied, looking towards the door he had left slightly ajar. “It’s okay, once he’s down, not much can wake him, you can speak normally.”

Cara sighed heavily and settled on the couch.

“You got two cars on you now that we pulled the surveillance on the DHS home,” she informed him.

“I know,” Din replied. “I saw the sedan following us back here and park across the street. The other, a van, is two blocks over.”

Cara sat back up and frowned, and Din was tempted to laugh at her cross expression.

“Don’t feel bad, they were discreet enough.”

“They’re supposed to be professionals,” she still grumbled.

“I’m pretty good at picking surveillance,” he shrugged, unconcerned.

“Think the punks after you also noticed them?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, but deep down he knew that it was probably the case. And that they’d have to be creative to reach him – which was both good news and bad news. Good news because he didn’t particularly feel like taking them on right now, especially with Santi around. And bad news because Din also didn’t want to wait: he wanted to catch them and be done with it.

“Any news from Omera’s place?” he asked next, and Cara groaned because it was probably the tenth time he asked her today. They’d agreed not to call as Din didn’t want either gang members or the FBI potentially listening in on their conversations, but she’d also told him on Saturday when he last saw her that she’d get a pay as you go phone at the drug store and that she’d call his satellite phone if there was anything – she hadn’t yet.

“You still think Xi’an is going to be the first one to come after you?” she parried back and it was his turn to sigh.

“I don’t know the other guys, but I know Xi’an, and she’s got a temper. Even if it was Qin’s plan all along to get arrested, and I’m not so sure, she won’t like that her brother is back behind bars.”

“You _really_ went after him,” Cara recalled, and Din offered her a drink to change the subject – he didn’t like talking about it because she was right.

She accepted a beer after some hesitation, but it was past midnight already, and she wouldn’t be able to concentrate on work anymore.

“Thank you for what you did,” Din told her sincerely, clinking his bottle to hers.

“You already thanked me on the phone,” Cara noted, an eyebrow raised.

“Well, it deserves to be said twice,” and she gave him a grateful half-smile. Din knew she must have been pulling quite a lot of strings the day before to make it happen.

He’d been a nervous wreck that morning before going to see his boss. He’d put on his best – and only – suit, not his uniform, as if he had already accepted that he would get fired. And…it hadn’t happened. Instead, the man had praised him for the undercover work he’d _apparently_ been doing for the FBI before joining the airline company, and felt bad that it had caught up with him in Sacramento. Before Din could say anything, he went on to add that he had _really appreciated_ receiving a call from the Deputy Director to inform him of what had been going on and apologize for having involved one of their pilots. A video of his fight _had_ appeared online, but thankfully it was too blurry to see the Delta logo on his uniform so the company would be able to avoid a PR nightmare that would have meant probable disciplinary actions despite his ‘heroism’ in the past. Din tried not to choke at the use of that particular word, and said as little as possible, as he didn’t want to contradict whatever scenario Cara had somehow concocted for him.

His boss had gone on to say how ‘lucky’ they were to have him working for them, and that all the other pilots and crew only had good things to say about him and that his clear devotion to his job was inspiring. Din fidgeted even more in his seat, as he felt completely undeserving of such praises, especially under the circumstances. Said circumstances kept making themselves known as he could only stare at his hands – painful, raw, and the result of hard punches – lying helplessly in his lap.

On that subject, his boss also insisted that he needed to be checked out by their OSHA physician right away, and that if they advised he should be on medical leave, then to take the necessary break. And it turned out that both him and Omera had been right: no internal bleeding but two of his ribs were broken, and he was advised to take things easy and put on medical leave for two weeks. Din was given a prescription for strong pain medications, but he didn’t have the heart to tell the doctor he’d never have it filled – the man was nice, and had commented the first time he saw him for his hiring check-up and cardiac stress test that he was stupidly over qualified. He needed to keep a clear head, and pain meds took that away from him. So if it got really bad he’d crack open another bottle of tequila, and in the meantime he’d stick to lying on his living room floor.

“So, two weeks?” Cara said, bringing him back to the present.

“Two weeks,” he confirmed.

“It might take more than two weeks to catch them. I know that’s what you’re hoping for, but…”

“I’m aware of that,” he replied, his tone clipped.

Din didn’t think Cara needed to know that he didn’t plan on _waiting_ if things started looking like they wouldn’t get resolved in two weeks. He’d give the Bureau and her team a chance, sure. But he wasn’t going to indefinitely go about his life looking over his shoulder at every corner. He felt like he’d only _just_ started to stop doing it, which unfortunately explained why he was in this situation in the first place. He also had to think about Winta, who was only spending a week away at her grandfather’s, and Omera, who had to subject herself to the FBI scrutiny. He owed it to them to make the situation last for as little time as possible, as he’d caused it in the first place.

And he also had to think about his own son, whom he’d chosen to have by his side rather than in the relative safety of the DHS home. He trusted Peli, but he didn’t know the other workers and couldn’t be certain that they wouldn’t be bought off or influenced by the _Norteños_ gang in some way. His first call after leaving the doctor’s office had been to Cara to thank her for saving his ass once more, and his second to I.G. Now that he knew that he wasn’t about to lose his job and that he had two weeks off work to make things right again – and he would – he let himself breathe a tiny bit easier. _At least he’d still have Santi at the end of all this._

He’d indicated in no uncertain terms to the young lawyer that he didn’t really care _how_ he’d do it, but they needed to find a way for him to have the boy with him for the next fortnight. It turned out that no drastic measures had to be taken, and I.G. managed to convince the mellowing judge assigned to their case that since he’d been granted two weeks for the Christmas holidays, he was allowed two more weeks for Spring break.

Din still had doubts, and wondered all the way back from the DHS home with his overexcited kid in the backseat if he wasn’t making another big mistake. Things were starting to feel a bit too much like they had in the summer except that this time, they needed to stay put in his apartment and resist the ever-so tempting pull to pack the car and drive as far away as possible.

While he’d been letting his mind wander over possible outcomes, Cara had laid some files on his coffee table and he forced himself to pay attention to what she was saying – Cara was far from stupid, and probably already knew that he meant to act with or without the FBI’s help, but it didn’t mean that he had to actually announce it to her loud and clear.

“I kept trying to dig stuff up on the other two you saw in the van – Mayfeld and Burg. They were arrested back in July alongside Qin and Xi’an, but since the vehicle belonged to Qin he was the only one charged for unlawful possession of firearms. They did find a shitload of unregistered weapons in the trunk, but none on their persons.”

“They’re not _completely_ stupid,” he conceded.

“And you’re sure you never saw the other two before? Burg did some time for assault, and Mayfeld was in the army but I couldn’t discover much more than that yet. They’re being quiet on the subject so I assume he was probably dishonorably discharged. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was for some serious misconduct.”

“What branch was he in?” Din asked, looking at his picture more closely.

“Infantry, that’s all I know at the moment,” Cara replied. “You think your paths crossed at some point?”

“Maybe when I was with the 82nd, but I left the army after 6 years so I’m not sure.”

He had one of those non-descript faces. His empty eyes did kind of ring a bell, though. Even if Din had seen them on many soldiers and gang members alike.

“So now that Omera isn’t there, you’re gonna tell me what the deal is between you and Xi’an?”

Din groaned and decided to lie back on the floor – Cara wisely didn’t say anything when he winced, taking a couple of seconds to find the right position for his ribs to stop bothering him.

“I was pretty fucked up by the time I was 24,” he admitted.

“Tell me about it…” Cara agreed, and Din allowed himself a small smile at that.

“I’d just spent two years in and out of Afghanistan, then one more in Iraq and I was a bit done with everything.”

“You were thinking of dropping out?”

“It was 2004, I was on a rare leave back in the US, and I already knew they were gonna send us back there,” Din breathed in slowly and closed his eyes. It wasn’t difficult to recall his mind-set at the time. Even fifteen years later.

“You ever been to Fallujah?” he asked Cara when he opened his eyes again, in time to see her shake her head. “I don’t recommend it. Everything was so…fucked up,” Din repeated, because he didn’t think the right words existed to describe the situation over there at the time.

“A lot of things went wrong and made me reconsider if the army was the right place for me. I think I expected it to be more different than what I’d known in the streets and it actually really wasn’t,” he added when Cara kept silent.

“And so you decided to join Malk’s team for a few operations?” she eventually asked, but her tone wasn’t judgmental.

“ _Decide_ is perhaps a strong word… The boss needed someone to assist and I volunteered. I just wanted out of L.A.”

“Did that make you feel any better?” Cara queried, and Din took his time answering from his prone position on the floor. It had certainly felt that way for a while. Taking stupid risks that he _chose_ to take rather than was ordered to. Facing off _La Eme_ members and other rivals rather than Iraqi insurgents. Indulging in more selfish forms of pleasure through alcohol, drugs and sex.

“For a time, yeah,” he acknowledged freely.

“What pulled you back?”

“Paz, as it turned out,” he laughed. “I hadn’t really made it a secret that I wanted out, and I think he heard about some of the stuff that happened in Fallujah. I was coming down from some high and saw his number on my phone and didn’t really think. We hadn’t seen each other much since the start of the Iraq war, but we’d kind of kept in touch. I’d always joked with him that I wanted to become a pilot and I guess he took me seriously because he convinced me to join the Air Force rather than give everything up.”

“You didn’t want to become a pilot?”

“Sure,” he said, running his hands over his face and avoiding the still sore spots. “But I didn’t think I’d ever make it, you know? My GPA was passable at best and I was certain I wouldn’t fit in. I thought the army was the only place they’d have someone like me.”

“And yet Paz convinced you, despite your addled state,” Cara smirked.

“Probably _thanks_ to my addled state, to be honest. I wasn’t thinking clearly. But with the war they needed more pilots and he knew the right people to have the army agree to the transfer. And that was that,” Din shrugged. “I wonder how Paz would have reacted if he’d known then what I had _actually_ been doing. I only came clean last year when I told him everything.”

“No use thinking about that now,” noted Cara, and Din nodded. Yes, it was probably best not to dwell over such things. In any case, even if he hadn’t been using much, it was the last time he touched the substance.

“I’m guessing Ran and his team didn’t appreciate you leaving them in the lurch?” she surmised.

“They didn’t give me that much grief, actually. I helped them on some operations, that was it. I was _Nuestra Familia_ , not _Norteños_. Except for Xi’an, who most definitely became a _massive mistake_ once I’d stopped drinking and doing drugs to take the edge off.”

“Funny how some people turn out that way once you have a clear head.”

“Yeah,” he agreed in a huff, and was ready to ask about her _own_ massive mistake she’d mentioned on the beach when he heard Santi starting to fuss and cry in the other room. It sounded like a nightmare, which gave him pause as he hadn’t had one in a while as far as he knew. He quickly stood up, automatically placed his gun somewhere high up and concealed that his boy wouldn’t reach or see, and told Cara he’d be right back.

It was a nightmare alright, and Santi was already sitting up in his bed, his arms reaching up to him when he entered the bedroom.

“ _¿Qué pasa, tesoro? ¿Tuviste una pesadilla?”_ he asked the small boy who nodded against his shoulder and cried some more, though more quietly. He paced the small room and kept his tone warm and reassuring, the words not mattering. It took a while for him to settle, and as Din ran soothing circles with the palm of his hand over his small back, he remembered Omera mentioning in the summer how much kids could _absorb_. How much they could _feel_ in any given situation, despite their young age. And he remembered how guilty he had felt then.

“ _Lo siento, Santiago. Lo siento mucho,”_ he whispered to him, as the warm tears against his shirt slowly stopped. From the way he kept clinging to his neck though, he knew it was no use trying to put him back to bed just yet.

“Cara is here,” he told him slowly, switching to English. “Do you want to go see her and drink some milk?” he suggested, and the curly mop agreed.

He nodded to Cara when they exited the room, but his son stayed hidden against his chest. He probably didn’t want to say hi just yet, which was fair enough.

“Do you want warm milk or cold milk?” he asked him once they were in front of the fridge. He still had a bottle every morning, but he’d started asking for regular milk as well lately.

“Cold milk, dada,” mumbled Santi, perking up slightly. “Milk that hurt teeth.”

“Milk that hurt teeth it is, then,” said Din, pouring him a glass – he wasn’t able to explain where all his expressions came from, but he reminded himself that he should make a note of them, for posterity’s sake.

He convinced him to go to the living room to drink his milk, and he finally frowned at Cara who offered him an awkward ‘hi’. They’d seen each other several times, but there was still some suspiciousness at work – mostly from Cara’s side, which made Din laugh.

“Nightmare,” he explained simply, the boy’s back against his chest as he attempted – and mostly succeeded – to drink his glass without spilling it on the couch. When he was done, Din could tell it wouldn’t take him long to fall asleep again, as he slumped against his side. Putting him back in his bed on the other hand would be more difficult.

“I should go, it’s late,” said Cara, standing up.

“It’s fine, don’t worry,” he told her, letting the child settle against him, his head burrowing under his arm.

“Our conversation wasn’t really age appropriate for the little one, and this looks more important than anything else at the moment,” she pointed out, nodding towards the warm bundle on his chest. He smiled, because she was right, and she let herself out, reminding him to lock his door before turning in.

But Din didn’t turn in. Instead, he laid back on the floor with his already sleeping son over him, and recalled the first time he’d decided he wanted to become a pilot. He was lying in that exact same position, ten year’s old, in a secret spot he’d found with other kids next to LAX where you could see the airplanes taking off over the sea. It had started as a dare to see who’d manage to stay still for the longest and not block their ears when the roaring engines flew over them. And little Mando would win, every time. And imagine how cool and freeing it would be to make that huge thing fly.

* * *

They were a bit groggy the next day. Din had eventually relocated the both of them to his own bed – one more habit he needed to break – but he could tell Santi was already tired of being cooped up inside. He couldn’t blame him, really. But he’d yet to figure out a way to keep him safe no matter what. So that meant staying in for now.

Just as he was starting to think about what they would have for lunch, the boy playing with his wooden train and making as much noise as possible to let him how _irked_ he currently was, Cara called.

“Yeah?” he replied automatically with a sigh.

“Don’t freak out, but I’m downstairs and I’m coming up,” she said.

“Okay…” he replied slowly, wondering why she hadn’t just used the intercom.

“I have something to tell you but please, don’t freak out,” and she hung up, and Din predictably started freaking out.

He opened the door before she had time to knock, and he immediately asked her what was wrong.

“I asked you not to freak you,” she reminded him, entering the living room and seeing Santi frown at her again – that was okay, he wasn’t in the best mood after all.

“Yeah, and it’s not working,” Din replied, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Maybe you should sit down…” Cara started.

“Cara, what is it?” Din interrupted, not moving, his back ramrod straight.

“Well, it seems that _you_ were right and that Xi’an would be the first to come out of the woodwork,” she said quickly, and Din held his breath.

“And?” he pressed when she didn’t continue.

“And apparently _we_ were wrong and there was actually someone else she wanted to get to before you.”

“Cara, I swear to God…” he muttered, teeth set, hating the fact that she wouldn’t just _say it_ , whatever it was.

“She’s fine, everybody’s fine, but she paid a visit to Omera this morning,” she eventually disclosed.

“What?!” Din bellowed, Santi looking up at him from his train set with wide eyes. “What the hell happened? Where was your fucking surveillance team?” he asked, not managing to correct himself in time and already picking up the boy and going through what he needed to pack.

“She… What are you doing?” Cara asked, seeing him gather stuff around the place, Santi grumbling in his arms.

“What do you think? I’m going over there if that’s where Xi’an is and if you can’t even manage to protect one _single_ person. I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to do a better job!”

“No, you can’t go there, that’s probably exactly what they want, don’t you see? They’re trying to provoke you again,” Cara rushed in to say, trying to catch his eyes, but they wouldn’t settle anywhere, his mind on overdrive.

“Tell me she’s not hurt,” he urged her, his stare heavy on her now and beseeching. “Tell me she’s okay.”

“She’s fine, I promise,” Cara told him in a softer tone. “I’m really sorry we didn’t manage to catch Xi’an in time, but it looks like Omera had it under control.”

“What do you mean? I need to call her…” he realized, and started pacing again, remembering that he didn’t have the number of her burner yet but deciding to call her regular cell – he didn’t care if anybody was listening in, he just needed to hear her voice. Hear her say in her own words that she was okay.

“Din, you can’t…” Cara reminded him. “They might be tapping her phone.”

“I don’t care, if I’m not going there then I need to call her. _Find_ me a way or I’ll find one myself,” he demanded, his boy held tight against his side, not caring that he didn’t seem to like it.

“Cara, please…” he added when he saw her hesitate, and that finally seemed to do the trick as she cursed under her breath, and unclipped the radio from her belt.

“She’s with our agents at the scene, it happened a couple of hours ago and the sheriff got involved but we’re coming up with a believable scenario to protect her. To protect you _both_ ,” Din nodded, and waited for her to make the call. “We can patch you through and it should be safe for you to talk, but other agents might be listening in.”

“Cara, I don’t give a shit if the Pope is listening in right now, I just want to hear her voice,” he admitted, and she smirked.

“Omera?” he said once she handed him the radio.

“Din, is that you?” the voice was staticky but it was definitely hers, and he stopped hugging Santi so hard against him.

“Are you okay? Do you want me to come over?” he quickly asked her.

“I’m fine, don’t worry about me. And the agents said it wasn’t safe for you here, that it could be a trap.”

Din grumbled and intended to tell her that he didn’t give a flying fuck what the agents said but he didn’t want to worry her either.

“Tell me what happened,” he pressed her instead, hoping he didn’t sound too desperate. “I told you you should have gone to your dad with Winta…”

“And I told you I could defend myself, and I did. She just showed up at the house this morning…”

“ _Jesus_ , what’s the point of having you under FBI surveillance?” he wondered out loud, hoping that the agents were _actually_ listening in on their conversation. He eventually put down a fussing Santi, and he watched him walk cautiously towards Cara.

“What did she want?”

“Just to scare me, I guess.”

“Did she say anything?” he asked, fearful of her answer, as there was really no way to predict what the crazy woman would say at the best of times.

“Nothing that made any sense,” she replied, and Din couldn’t tell if she was being truthful or if she didn’t want to repeat it right now. In any case, he was still freaking out. “But I’ve been keeping my father’s old rifle next to the door and I fired a warning shot when she refused to leave. She was gone before the agents showed up.”

“Well, at least you managed to wake them from their naps,” Din praised, taking another potshot at the G-men. He felt better at the knowledge that she hadn’t hesitated to use the rifle. She’d told him she was a good shot, and now he could believe her.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” he asked her again, as he could imagine she needed to be somewhere else. “I’m sorry this is making you miss work and everything.”

“Don’t be, I’m gonna be the talk of the town for a little while, and we still need to have a word with the sheriff and that guy is a douchebag…”

“Sorry,” Din repeated. “Stay safe and close to the agents. Hopefully they’re well and truly awake, now.”

“Speak to you later, stay safe as well and don’t take stupid risks,” she exhorted, and he grumbled in agreement before handing the radio back to Cara, who was trying and failing not to look too worried at Santi staring at her.

“Thank fuck she knows how to shoot,” he told her, cursing himself again for not checking his language in his boy’s presence. But he was pissed. Relieved to have heard directly from Omera that she was unharmed, but _really_ pissed. He’d meant to give the FBI a chance, but now he had proof he’d be better off handling things on his own.

Cara had the decency to look a little guilty, and she kept trying to escape his son’s riveted gaze.

“Why is your boy looking at me like that kid from _The Omen_?” she eventually asked.

“It’s lunch time, he’s hungry,” Din replied simply.

“He looks at you like _that_ when he’s hungry?” she marveled, and Din shrugged.

“He was annoyed with me so he went to you as you’re the second potential source of food here,” he explained, picking Santi up and taking him to the kitchen to find him a snack.

“I feel honored,” said Cara, sounding anything but, and Din tried to hide his grin as he got some baby carrots from the fridge.

He sat Santi directly on the counter, and handed him the open bag. The boy gave him a dark look – deserved – but started munching on the small sticks. Din knew they needed _proper_ food but he was still too wired from what he’d learned.

“How about we all go for some lunch? As an apology,” Cara suggested, somehow reading his mind.

“The Bureau will pick up the tab?” Din asked, clearly interested as it would give them an excuse to leave the small apartment for a bit.

“Sure, if it’s reasonable,” she confirmed.

“Pizza sounds good?” he queried, and Santi predictably immediately picked up on the word and discarded the baby carrots.

“Pizza?” the boy repeated, looking at the both of them with his huge brown eyes and dimpled cheeks.

“You’re not gonna refuse to feed my kid pizza, right?” he pressed Cara, who still seemed a bit taken aback by his boy’s perfectly acceptable fascination for food.

“Let’s take your car and have a surveillance vehicle follow just in case,” she sighed, already walking towards the door.

Din drove them to the place where they’d gone for Santi’s second birthday, and the boy sang a happy chorus in the backseat all the way there, the word ‘pizza’ being very prominent in the lyrics. Any other day, he would have put music on to get him to stop, but today he’d decided that Cara’s grimace was worth the slight discomfort.

“Is that payment?” she asked him, pained.

“Well, you also did steal my tequila,” he reminded her and she sighed again.

When they parked, it was his turn to grumble but eventually acquiesce when she pointed at the gun he’d tried to hide under his sweater, and put it in the glovebox instead.

“I’m here with you and the surveillance car will remain close by watching the place, no need to risk it,” she reasoned as Din unlatched Santi from his seat and kept a close eye on their surroundings just in case.

Everything went fine at first – the restaurant wasn’t crowded and they were seated at a table where they could watch the door. They ordered their food and Santi destroyed half a pizza after having eaten all the breadsticks he managed to lay his small hands on before Din intervened. They were thinking about getting coffee when he decided to visit the restroom to try and see if he could salvage his grey sweater following Santi ‘accidently’ wiping his fingers covered in tomato sauce on him.

He didn’t think to check the stalls, and he was facing the mirror and turning on the hot tab when Xi’an jumped on his back.

Two things went through his mind quickly: first, that was the last time he listened to Cara. He should have _definitely_ risked taking his gun with him. Second, fighting in restaurant bathrooms was something he had hoped to leave behind. Figuring out what to do with an unhinged person sitting on his back and looping their arms around his shoulders all the while pressing an intricate blade against his throat came in a very late third. Which in itself, was probably a bit worrying.

“Xi’an,” he greeted her, looking in the mirror to see her face.

“Mando,” she replied with a wide smile, showing pointy teeth. “Or should I say Din? What do you prefer?” she asked, looking down at him in consideration, her left hand caressing his upper chest while the right maintained the deadly knife against his neck.

“Either is fine if you agree to drop the knife.”

“Nice try,” she praised, her lips directly against his ear, and he tried not to shudder – he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction and he needed to think, fast.

“I wouldn’t try to call for help if I were you,” Xi’an supplied, her free hand now venturing in his hair. “You wouldn’t want me to make a mess, would you?” she added, gripping his locks in a fist and pressing the blade so hard below his Adam’s apple that he saw a small rivulet of blood trickling down his throat.

“Definitely not,” he agreed, standing still, his eyes fixed on hers over the sink. “What do you want, Xi’an?” he wondered, finding it harder and harder to resist forcibly removing her from his back, despite the risk of seeing a lot more blood pooling at his neck.

“Oh, so many things…” she hummed, her hand back to brushing his hair. “So many things, so little time…”

“Tell me,” he insisted, forcing his voice to remain steady and wondering how long it would take Cara to question why he wasn’t back.

“Saw your _girlfriend_ this morning,” she carried on, unfazed, pulling hard at his hair again. “And Ran was _certain_ that you’d run to her once you heard what happened. But I said no, I know _my_ Mando, and he wouldn’t let someone like _her_ distract him for long.”

Din gulped down hard and tried not to worry that it probably meant that Malk was waiting for him in Raymond. He hoped with all his heart that Omera was safe and still with the FBI agents.

“I’m touched that you know me so well, Xi’an,” he said, trying to stall some more, when every fiber of his being was screaming at him to do something already. To cause her actual physical pain for what she’d implied about his relationship with Omera. As if deciding to stay in Seattle hadn’t cost him and didn’t weigh heavily on his heart with each passing minute.

“Funny how we’ve always seemed to _click_ , don’t you think so Mando? I know the boys want to _hurt_ you, and part of me really wants to hurt you too for what you did to my brother,” she acknowledged, and the blade slid higher over his throat. “But I keep remembering how _good_ we had it together,” her breath heavy against this neck and Din closing his eyes in distaste, thankfully without her noticing. “So abandon the bitch and that boy who isn’t even yours and come back to me,” she finished and he quickly opened his eyes again.

Cara had called it him ‘snapping’ when she saw him fight Qin. And he’d corrected her, saying that wasn’t the case. That was him. Always _him_. Just a different part of him that hadn’t been switched on for a while. And Xi’an’s words reminded him that although Mando would have probably already reacted by now and done his best to turn the tables in his favor, like he had done so over the summer with that little shit Calican, he _had_ evolved. But it didn’t mean that Din didn’t know how to act up and take charge of a situation. _On the contrary_.

Mando could be rash and violent, but at the end of the day he didn’t much care about the outcome as he had nothing to lose. Din on the other hand had _everything_ to lose. And instead of making him weaker, it made him more powerful: he knew exactly what was at stake here and would defend it with his dying breath. The bound between him and his son had become unbreakable and he could feel that his relationship with Omera and her daughter would soon follow suit – if it wasn’t already the case. Listening to Xi’an threatening them, in any way, was unthinkable.

“Xi’an,” he started, steeling himself and looking straight at her demented eyes in the mirror. “Whatever drug induced relationship we had lasted for two weeks and it was fifteen years ago. Fucking get over yourself already.”

While she opened her mouth in enraged shock he pushed against the sink with all his might and propelled the both of them against the toilet stall behind them. The flimsy door came off its hinges and his back screamed in pain but she let go of his shoulders and dropped to the floor. The knife had cut his lower neck as she went down and he could feel blood leaking to his collar, but the wound didn’t seem deep. He didn’t have time to check in any case as Xi’an was on her feet again. Winded, hurt, and _furious_.

“You’ll fucking pay for this, Mando,” she promised, her eyes looking everywhere for the blade she’d dropped. Din was on it first, and kicked it away before she lunged for him again. But she’d lost whatever advantage she’d had over him. In a pure show of strength, Din would always have the upper hand, as she’d made the same mistake as her brother – they’d both seen him fight other people, but they’d never fought _him_.

Din was quick to block her hands with one arm, while the other pushed against her stomach, hard. She landed on her back with a rush of expelled air but managed to aim a painful kick at his already tender ribs and he groaned in pain. Taking advantage of his momentary lapse, she rose to her knees and let her rage overcome her, which was her last mistake, as Din quickly recovered and used whatever strength he still found inside him to make her lose her rocky balance. He drove her against the bathroom sink where she knocked the back of her head and fell to the floor in an instant, out cold. Din held his breath, certain that she would open her eyes again and spew more venomous words at him, but she stayed still, her breathing slow but there. He tried very hard not to lament over the fact that he hadn’t killed her, because that was something _Mando_ would hope for, not Din.

He took in a deep breath then winced, his right side screaming in agony, then listened for any rushed steps outside. Surely they’d made enough noise to attract people. But _no_ , it seemed that Din had to continue handling everything on his own. So he grabbed the electric cable linking the hand dryer to the outlet and pulled hard, then tied Xi’an wrists around the drain pipe. He wasn’t going to take any risks, she’d already escaped _once_ today.

Din slowly stood up, refrained from looking at himself in the mirror and walked out, doing his best to remain calm.

“God, what happened to you again, and why is your neck bleeding?” asked Cara, whose face quickly morphed from amusement to worry.

“Xi’an is tied up in the restroom, but I think it would be best if you and your agents got to her quick, she’s a slippery one,” he replied, breath short, watching Santi smiling up at him, his belly pleasantly full. He felt as if all of his years had decided to suddenly catch up with him.

“What? Fuck!” she yelled, loudly, and ran to the bathroom, her hands hesitating between reaching for her radio or her gun first.

“Fu…” started his kid.

“Don’t finish that word and I’ll order you some ice cream,” he quickly interrupted him.

“Ice cream?” Santi said instead, clearly interested.

“Good boy,” sighed Din, sitting back down next to him and catching the attention of the waiter. Hopefully, Santi would have his ice cream before the place turned into a circus.


	9. Alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting! We're getting near the end of this story, which should be quite action-packed. As always, thanks for your support, kudos, and comments. Love you all. :)

The fact that two targets from Ran’s team had already been arrested only seemed to please Cara.

“You wanted to get this over with in two weeks, and it’s only Tuesday,” she’d pointed out that evening on the phone.

Santi was asleep, and he was once again lying down on his living room floor. His fight with Xi’an, though short lived, hadn’t helped his slowly healing ribs one bit. _That fucking family_. He’d even relented and taken some mild pain killers, but they’d barely put a dent in the throbbing ache that flared up anytime he breathed or moved. Din therefore tried to do as little of the two as he could, which was proving tricky.

“There’s still Burg and Mayfeld, and I have no idea who they are or how they usually operate,” he reminded her. It had been personal with Qin and his sister, because they had a history. With those two, he could only wonder. Were they acting out of honor for their now arrested comrades? Following Ran’s orders? Or were they just as unhinged as Xi’an and happy to crush anything they equated to ‘enemies’?

“Malk was nowhere to be found in or around Raymond, but we doubled Omera’s surveillance.”

“Thanks,” Din sighed. Xi’an’s taunts had made it sound like the rest of her crew was waiting there, but they were now probably laying low. Whether they were waiting for him to make the first move or planning their next one, it was impossible to tell. Still, Din knew that time wasn’t working in his favor. Winta would be back the following Monday, and a week after that he was supposed to be back in a cockpit.

“Xi’an isn’t proving very talkative. Much like her brother. But we have quite a lot on the both of them to keep them for now.”

“Good,” he replied, non-committally. Din actually couldn’t care less. In the past, anytime Cara mentioned an arrest that they had made thanks to the information he had given, he’d feel a small pang of guilt. When it was people he actually knew or had known at one point in his life, the pain was almost physical, and after a while he’d simply asked her not to tell him anything about her case. He wasn’t sure Cara understood or ever would understand – they might not be his family exactly, but they’d been the closest thing he had to one for a very long time.

It was different now. Everything was different.

He wasn’t Mando anymore, and the _Norteños_ gang had only been a _distant_ family, if that at best. Certainly not Xi’an and her brother. Ran, though… Ran was another matter entirely.

“You think Malk himself could also be a problem?” asked Cara, somehow reading his thoughts.

Din stared at the Glock resting within reach on the coffee table. That gun wouldn’t be leaving his sight or his person until it was all over.

“He must be in his mid-sixties, by now. Fifteen years ago he did take part in the operations. Now I’m guessing he’s only there to give orders, and that Mayfeld guy must be his right hand-man. From what you told me about Burg, he doesn’t have the brains.”

“And Mayfeld’s ex-military,” agreed Cara.

“Did you dig up anything more on that front?”

“Not really,” she grumbled. “I’m half tempted to ask Paz. I know he has the necessary connections in the army.”

“He’s supposed to be back from Somalia soon, right?” Din asked, remembering their last call, which was a couple of weeks old. Before everything went to shit, _again_.

“Yeah,” she voiced out, and from her tone Din could deduce she was just as anxious to see him.

“What’s your plan for the next few days?” Cara eventually wondered after a few seconds of surprisingly companionable silence.

Din liked the fact that she would directly inquire about his actions, rather than bluntly tell him he shouldn’t be getting any more involved and let the FBI do their jobs, or find a roundabout way to deter him. She’d seen how well that had panned out, after all. Trouble had come looking for him twice, not the other way round.

“Looking over my shoulder when I go to the bathroom, for a start,” he deadpanned. “And just see if anything comes up.”

That was true enough – Din intended to give himself a few days. He usually felt more comfortable being on the offense, but he was so in the dark regarding Ran’s team ‘strategy’ – if they actually had one – that he was smart enough to realize it would be suicide to simply dive in, guns blazing, in the proverbial showdown on the high street.

“How’s your back?” Cara asked.

And yes, that too. He was definitely getting too old for this.

“It’s fine,” he replied.

“Are you lying down on the floor of your living room again?”

“Yes,” he admitted.

“With a bottle of tequila nearby?”

“No.”

“Well then, not too bad I guess.”

“Mmh,” he grumbled in agreement.

‘Not too bad’ was actually _not_ how the following couple of days went.

Santi was cranky. More so than usual. Being cooped up inside was one thing. But seeing him walk the length of the small living room _ad infinitum_ , ruminating over possible outcomes and what he could have done to avoid them in the first place was not what two-year olds would call ‘a good time’. Din knew this, and would force himself to focus on other things. Watching a cartoon with him on TV. Build a puzzle. Reading him stories. But after a while, his mind would start to wander again, and he’d go check the street outside. Look into the peephole. Make notes of the comings and goings of his neighbors. Do pushups until his back screamed at him to stop.

The fact that he wasn’t sleeping didn’t help matters. He only found some rest in the afternoons, when Santi and him napped on his big bed.

Anxiety and fear had been slowly – and painfully – eradicated from his makeup over the course of his life. But fearing for one’s life was vastly different than fearing for the life of others. And when those others were the people he had chosen for his own family rather than the family that had been thrust upon him – be it his gang, or his brothers in arms – the stakes became that much higher, he had found out. And not for the first time, he wondered what had made him decide to subject himself to such crippling anguish. But one look at the boy resting easily in his bed at night when he couldn’t find sleep himself quickly dissuaded him of such doubts. He was _supposed_ to feel that anguish. It was what made him alive. It was everything that Din was about and Mando wasn’t.

On the third day, Cara called earlier than usual to give her daily ‘report’, though she’d had nothing to impart upon him since Tuesday. Din was aware that his replies to her questions had become more and more brusque. Santi was sleeping okay and he didn’t have painful ribs, but apart from that they were pretty much in agreement over everything else: their days _sucked_.

“I’m taking you out this evening,” Cara announced.

“Yeah, because that went _so_ well the last time you did that…” he replied, rolling his eyes.

Santi looked up from his construction set. Eyebrows crossed in concentration. Din had asked him a few minutes earlier if he wanted help and he’d been given a resounding ‘No’ in reply.

“This time I’m choosing the place.”

“Let me guess – a Feds’ bar.”

“Wrong, a Marines’ bar.”

“Mayfeld is ex-military, are you sure this is a good idea?” Din pointed out, sighing deeply then regretting it when his ribs complained.

“Ex-army, and it’s one of the first places my team investigated – no one’s seen him before, but they’ll be sure to let us know if that changes. So, are you and Santi in?”

“I don’t know…” he mumbled, his free hand sliding over his week old stubble and catching on the band-aid on his neck – Xi’an’s cut had been deeper than he’d thought at first.

“They do a really great burger…” Cara tried.

“Hear that, Santi? Cara is trying to ply us with food,” Din addressed the boy.

“Pizza?” he piped up.

“Santi wants to know if they have pizza,” he relayed, allowing himself a small chuckle.

“Not sure about pizza, but their fries are really good.”

“Cara says she’s not sure, but the fries are good. You like fries, right?” Din checked, playing along still.

Santi nodded, his round eyes getting even rounder, and Din found himself agreeing. Cara had also promised a ‘surprise’ for him.

A surveillance car followed them to the place Cara had indicated and Din didn’t leave his gun behind this time. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but it looked like a regular sports bar/burger joint. The kid in his arms didn’t look too out of place – there were a couple of other families – and even without his friend’s information, he would have easily picked up that the place was frequented by ex-military. He was appraised just as much as he appraised the other patrons, and he seemed to pass whatever implicit test he’d been subjected to. Still, that didn’t stop him from squaring his shoulders and looking into each and every corner of the bar as he made his way to Cara’s table.

“I get it now,” she said in lieu of greeting as he stiffly sat down, Santi looking pleased to see her for once.

“Get what?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

“All that time you still dedicate to exercising. And that stupid job you kept. Getting into brawls and not minding one bit. You were just getting ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“For _this_. Somehow you knew your old life would catch up with you, consciously or not.”

This realization seemed to make her sad, and she busied herself saying hi to his boy next. Her words also gave him pause, but he’d come to the same conclusion a while ago already. When almost every morning he found the energy to get out of bed and go to the gym or for a run. That was just part of his life. There was no real pleasure in it. It was just something that he needed to do. That had never stopped and probably never would. Same as his knowledge that accepting to work security in seedy clubs and bars would give him the opportunity to hone his _other_ skills.

Din was distracted from his dark thoughts by his so-called ‘surprise’ showing up a few minutes later. It was Omera, who looked too beautiful for words, and Din stood up automatically.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, worried. “Is everything okay?”

“Surveillance shifts, I suggested they drive her here on the way,” Cara explained, smiling mischievously.

“But…”

“And I can drive her back tonight. _Or tomorrow_. I thought you guys deserved a break.”

Din was torn between thanking her for this act of kindness or yell at her for putting Omera in danger by having her come here.

“Are you going to let me kiss you or not?” Omera asked, arms akimbo, an amused look on her face despite his antics.

Okay, and that too. So he threw caution to the wind and pressed his lips to hers. Her hands lingered on his cheeks just a bit too long for it to remain completely innocent. Yeah, driving her home tomorrow sounded a lot better. They sat down next to each other in the booth, her hand clasped in his, Cara giving them a knowing look. He distracted her by asking about the menu. They ordered the required burgers, and Santi managed to eat all of his fries and half the ones on Omera’s plate.

“So what do you expect will happen next?” she asked once the table was cleared. They’d avoided the subject until now, talking about mindless matters and sharing a few laughs at his son’s appetite, but it was looming over their heads. Santi was resting easily in her arms at the moment – he’d been the one requesting the hug – and Din tried not to pay attention to the stirring in his chest at the sight.

“Well, we know that Qin and Xi’an had an agenda. A personal vendetta against you,” said Cara, seeing as he wouldn’t speak first.

“That doesn’t mean Mayfeld and Burg will go easier on me,” Din pointed out.

“But they might not go after you at all,” Cara noted.

“I doubt I’ll be so lucky…” he laughed without humor, and Omera gripped his hand under the table. Din gripped back and swallowed hard. What was she still doing here? She should be going home. It was not safe for her and he had no right wishing for her to stay. Ever. What was he hoping to accomplish? Have herself killed?

“Omera,” he started, turning towards her and his soon-to-be asleep son still held securely in her arms. “You…”

“I’ll go to the restroom, make sure no one’s lurking there,” Cara declared standing up, effectively interrupting his heartfelt speech. “Don’t get too crazy in my absence, kids,” she added, winking, and Din was utterly incapable of recapturing what he had meant to say. He sighed and lowered his head to his chest. This was too important. He had to find a way to communicate this feeling to her.

“What did you want to tell me?” she asked him softly, reading his thoughts. She let go of his hand to stroke his neck instead, her fingers lingering on the fresh band-aid but saying nothing about it. Din looked up, and her eyes told him she’d also grasped how serious the subject was for him.

Din knew what he was _supposed_ to say. ‘ _Get out while you still can.’_ But she couldn’t. Not anymore. Not really. She was already too involved because of him. There was too much at stake. Her own life. Her daughter’s. How could he have messed up so badly? Involving Santi was bad enough, but this was worse. His son’s fate was bound to his. Ever since he’d decided to adopt him. Hell, ever since he’d found him in that ramshackle house in L.A. But Omera’s…

“I should have never come back. I shouldn’t have let Cara influence me,” he mumbled.

“What are you saying?” she frowned, her hand caressing his face now, the movement slow, caring – _loving_ – and difficult to dismiss or ignore.

“Din?” she pressed, when he didn’t reply. His eyes were staring at Santi, asleep now despite the agitation in the bar. It was late and he should be in bed. But he looked so…safe. Warm. Contented. His curly head resting against Omera’s arm. Her hand solid and secure against his back as he breathed in and out calmly.

She pressed her lips to his again and he lost himself in the feeling, inhaling deeply and wanting to capture this moment so that it could stay with him forever, no matter what happened next. His son in her arms and her in his.

“I’m sorry,” he eventually managed to say.

“Whatever for?”

The danger. The fear. The doubts. The unknown. The lingering violence. The certain grim outcome. Everything that he had caused and brought into her life.

“Xi’an,” he eventually settled on saying. “The fact that she came to your house…”

“It was nothing,” Omera interrupted him. “She didn’t scare me.”

“She _should_ have, she’s dangerous.”

“Seems that she didn’t leave you completely unscathed,” she noted, this time acknowledging the bandage on his neck, her palm lingering there while both his arms still held her loosely against his side. She wasn’t the only one having difficulty keeping her hands to herself.

“I’m fine,” he intoned, and she gave him a half-smile in return.

“As fine as your choice in women. Should I start worrying over myself?” she queried, and he sighed, accepting the jibe easily as it was more than deserved.

“Sorry,” Din repeated. “I hope she didn’t say anything too awful,” he added, remembering that Omera had chosen not to share whatever his deranged ex had told her on the day of her visit.

“Nothing worth repeating,” she informed him, closing the subject for good and sealing it with a quick kiss.

“Omera…” he tried again, knowing that he was letting himself be distracted.

“Whatever you’re gonna say, don’t. Not here. Not right now,” she whispered, her warm brown eyes catching his then drifting to Santi’s small shape. Din placed his hand over hers on his son’s back, then slowly pulled away.

“Let’s get the check and get out of here, yeah?” Cara voiced once she was back from the bathroom, sensing that the mood was a lot gloomier than when she had left.

Cara drove Omera to Din’s place, but it was only to wish him and his still sleeping son a tensed goodbye. They’d silently agreed that it would be best if Cara took her home that night, but Omera still received a fierce and lingering hug from him before he turned his attention back to Santi to release him from his car seat. The more time he spent in her arms, the harder it was to let her go.

Din slowly made his way up his apartment, his boy clutched to his chest, and tried to convince himself that he was making the right choice. That letting Cara drive Omera back home was the safest solution. That it wasn’t killing him inside to turn his back on her and let her go back to Raymond, unsure of when he would see her again and in what frame of mind. He hadn’t exactly been very open or reassuring regarding their relationship. He just wished he could press pause and redo the last few days again.

He idly wondered as he was changing a barely awake Santi and putting him in his sleepwear whether the FBI had taken the opportunity of his absence to bug the place without his knowledge. And a couple of minutes later – his son thankfully back to sleep and in his bed, he bitterly regretted that he hadn’t suggested it in the first place, privacy be damned.

* * *

Omera was glad that Cara wasn’t starting the car just yet. She was checking in with her surveillance team via radio, berating an agent for taking too long to answer. The evening hadn’t gone as she had expected, and she wanted the opportunity to think. When she had agreed to come, she imagined she’d get to spend an evening with Din and Santi to change their minds after a tensed few days, and instead she’d been met by a man full of contradictions and unresolved inner conflicts. Santi had wanted hugs and the simple reassurance she cared for him. Those were gladly and easily given. His father wasn’t so different, and although it had been said in jest – Cara was supposed to drive her home that night from the start – she certainly wouldn’t have said no if he’d suggested she stayed.

And yet she couldn’t forget that haunted look in his eyes after the meal. After they’d talked and laughed and ignored the outside world for a little while. Because it was the same look she’d seen back in July. That of a hunted man who felt he didn’t deserve the merest shred of sympathy or humanity. An outcast, better to be left on his own and forgotten. The opposite of the little boy who’d fallen asleep in her arms, clinging to her warmth and trusting that she would keep him safe.

Watching him walk away from the car had been excruciating, and she’d been tempted to run after him, make him see reason. Tell him he was being an idiot, that word Cara liked. And that of course he deserved to be loved.

But instead, she sat there. Listening to Cara yelling at her agents and watching the light come on in his apartment.

“What happened between you two when I was in the restroom?” Cara asked after she was done. “I thought you needed some time alone but when I came back it was like you’d just dumped him or something, it was that bleak.”

Omera sighed, and Cara interpreted it badly.

“Oh shit, you did?” she wondered, her disbelief clear in her tone.

“No, of course not…” Omera quickly defended herself.

“Then… Don’t tell me _he_ did?”

“Well…” she started.

“I’m gonna kill him,” Cara vowed, interrupting her before she could find the right words. “That _fucking_ idiot!”

“He didn’t _dump_ me,” Omera corrected. “I think he tried to find a way to do it and realized he couldn’t. Not now that he feels responsible for my wellbeing until those thugs are caught.”

“You think he’s only staying with you because he feels _responsible_?” Cara asked, and Omera shook her head in the dark car, realizing as she was hearing the words spoken out loud that it didn’t make sense. That Din didn’t function like that. Santi’s responsibility might have been thrust upon him by accident at first, but he’d made a conscious decision to become his guardian. Similarly, he’d made a choice with her. And she didn’t think it was just her ego telling her it hadn’t been one he’d taken lightly either. No matter what he’d suggested, mentioning having let himself be influenced by Cara.

“I think he’s regressing. Falling back on old habits because he thinks… _Shit_ , what was that?”

Omera was quite sure she’d just heard glass breaking and seen a small object fall from Din’s living room window.

“Fuck!” Cara exclaimed, exiting the car quickly and yelling at her team while she ran towards the building. Omera didn’t have to think – she followed.

They heard the commotion from the stairs, and climbed the three floors side by side. Cara had asked her to stay back as she was unholstering her service weapon, but other than that didn’t comment on her being there. They saw a few neighbors poking their heads out of their doors, and Cara shouted at them to stay put. Omera hoped the other agents would soon be joining them – she had a very bad feeling about what they would find inside Din’s apartment, as the noise grew louder and louder. It didn’t sound like a minor scuffle.

What she saw when Cara kicked in the door with a practiced gesture turned her blood cold, and she stood frozen for several seconds before she started to scream.

Omera had no idea what she screamed, probably Din’s name, but she couldn’t be sure. In any case, it had a positive effect, as it distracted the hulk of a man currently sitting on his chest with his beefy hands around his throat long enough for Din to roll from under him. With a speed and agility that should have been impossible after what he’d visibly already gone through given the state of his apartment, he sidestepped the next attack, and landed his elbow viciously against a kidney, then a punch, targeting the sensitive spot knowingly. She heard Din’s heavy, raspy breathing from where she was standing, and the huge man’s groan as the pain forced him to kneel. Din lunged at his back, the both of them ignoring Cara’s exhortation to stop and raise their arms.

_Din wasn’t stopping._

Face bleeding, his boy crying out in the background, he used both his arms to twist his attacker’s shoulder behind his back as he lay prone on the floor, and Omera was quite sure she heard a crack.

In the end, it took six FBI agents to separate them, including Cara.

Omera stayed rooted on the spot, her eyes and ears only catching fragments of the chaotic scene. The glass on the floor. The broken frames and coffee table. Cara’s team yelling invectives at both Din and his attacker. The indents on the walls that worryingly looked human shaped. The heavy bookcases barricading the door, and behind it the terrible screams from a scared child.

It was that sound that finally made Din stop resisting the two men who were holding his arms. He asked to be let go in a raspy voice, and a nod from Cara, who was making sure the thug was securely cuffed and escorted outside, was enough for them to relent. Omera could see him shake from where she was, his muscles spent and seizing, and yet he barely made a sound as he moved the bookcases, his goal clear. She tried to help him but he managed on his own, the last of his strength dedicated to get to his son, whom he had done his best to protect.

She followed him inside the room, the cries that much stronger now that the door was open. Santi was screaming his little heart out, bright red, huge tears rolling down his face in terror at the sounds he had heard outside. He’d retreated to the very end of his bed, bunny plush clutched to his chest.

“Santi, _cariño_ , it’s okay, you’re safe, it’s over,” he said, his voice rough and barely recognizable. So unrecognizable that the little boy kept on shaking his head and asking for his ‘dada’.

“You’re bleeding,” mentioned Omera, and Din seemed to realize that it might also prevent his son from accepting it was him. He raised his sleeve to his forehead, his sweater deformed from having been manhandled, and tried to stop the blood from running down his face ineffectively. Scalp wounds tended to bleed a lot, and this one looked nasty from where Omera was standing. She resisted approaching his kneeling position by Santi’s bed, aware that his priority at the moment was to calm his child. He was ignoring the questions from the FBI agents crowding the door who wanted to know what had happened, and Omera gave them a dark look. Surely this could wait.

“ _Santi, hijo, lo siento. Todo esta bien…_ _Estás a salvo, tesoro. Te lo prometo._ ”

As usual, Spanish seemed to work better, and the little boy allowed Din to take him in his arms, his cries soon muffled against his dad’s shoulder. Din all but collapsed next to the boy’s bed and Omera rushed to his side. She could feel his whole body trembling as she placed one hand on his back, the other against Santi’s side, who was slowly calming as his father repeated soothing words in a broken voice. They stayed like that for a long time, until the agents stopped pestering them and started taking pictures in the living room instead, their voices disappearing in the background.

It was Cara who eventually brought them back to reality, kneeling in front of them.

“Din, you need to get checked out and give a statement,” she told him quietly, mindful of the barely reassured toddler in his arms. “There’s an ambulance outside and we’ve arrested Burg.”

Omera had been quite sure it was indeed the man whose picture she had seen, but it felt good to have it confirmed.

“Is he gone?” he asked gruffly, the angry red marks around his neck which would soon turn blue probably in great part responsible for the state of his voice.

“Yes,” Cara confirmed. “I’m sorry,” she added, the words difficult for her, and Din sighed.

“Not your fault,” he mumbled, attempting to hug Santi tighter when he let out a small distressed cry, but his arms were shaking too badly.

“I got him, Din. We’ll be fine, I promise. You need to make sure you’re okay,” Omera said, her palm trying to soothe the stiffened muscles of his back. His scalp wound needed stitches, and his raspy breath worried her. She tried not to picture how his living room had gotten wrecked, but she had a pretty good idea, and had seen enough.

Din eventually nodded and managed to place Santi in her arms without too much struggle or complaints. He whined when he saw his father leave the room, and his assurance that he would be right back didn’t help much, but he seemed to reluctantly accept Omera’s presence for the time being. She did her best to ignore the enormity of what she had witnessed and focused on the child instead – he was all that mattered for now, and Din trusted her to be there for him. Everything else could wait.

_The violence. The destruction. The fear._

She closed her eyes and whispered meaningless reassurances to the quietly fussing boy, concentrating on the smell of his baby soap and the feel of his soft curls against her neck.

“Dada, I want dada…” mumbled Santi, who definitely wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep given all the commotion outside, the agents being far from silent as they worked.

“Dada will be back soon, he was hurt and he needs looking after,” she whispered in his ear quietly, but it didn’t seem to help much, and the boy kept on sobbing faintly in exhaustion and worry – not quite crying yet, but getting there, and Omera could only empathize with him. She was sick with worry as well, and wanted to know how bad Din’s obvious injuries were. She kept imagining the worse – that a broken rib had punctured a lung, that he had a bad concussion, or that he had other, more serious cuts she hadn’t seen.

Knowing it was useless to expect the boy to fall asleep, she decided to grant his wish after a while – hers too.

“Let’s go see dada,” she announced, and he nodded against her neck, agreeing immediately.

She bundled him up in a pair of sweatpants and his panda hoodie, remembering to put shoes on his feet in case he wandered on the broken glass in the living room, and then they were off.

They encountered a few disgruntled neighbors outside, more agents, police cars, and a couple of ambulances. Chaos again, then. But at least she could see Din and Cara’s silhouettes in the distance. Din was sat in the back of one of the ambulances, his scalp laceration being worked on – she could only imagine what he had said to convince the paramedics that he didn’t need to be taken to the ER – and Cara standing next to him, in all likelihood taking down his statement.

“Dada!” uttered Santi, and seeing his father wave at him finally convinced the boy that everything would be okay. As long as he had him in his line of sight – Omera wanted to wait for as long as possible before approaching, knowing Din would refuse more treatment as soon as his son was placed in his arms again – he didn’t complain that they were staying away, and even burrowed deeper against her neck, the late hour and emotions finally catching up with him. Omera sighed, reassured as well by Din’s presence, and kept her gaze on him, watching him talk to Cara and answering the paramedics’ questions. His sweater sported large blood stains, but they all seemed to come from the cut on his head. Still, she hoped they had checked him over thoroughly, especially for internal bleeding. She could see that his right hand was bandaged, two fingers taped together, but other than that he seemed fine – if it wasn’t for his stooped posture against the ambulance’s doors and his longing look in her and Santi’s direction, he would have almost convinced her he wasn’t ready to drop.

Finally, they were done stapling his laceration, and Omera saw him refuse something – painkillers, knowing him – and listen to a few more recommendations before they released him. He stood up slowly from the back of the vehicle, wobbling for an instant, then walked in her direction with Cara, who still looked like she wanted to hit her head against the closest wall in guilt or anger or both.

Santi was almost asleep, but he raised his arms slowly at his dad, who picked him up gently. They both sighed in contentment at being reunited.

“Thank you,” Din whispered to her, his gaze heavy with both tiredness and affection.

“Of course,” she replied, her cheeks reddening at the simple but earnest words.

“Can you call off your goons from my place?” he asked Cara next. “I want to put the little one to bed. For good, this time.”

Cara didn’t grumble at the epithet, and reached for her radio. Omera tried finding the right words to say, ask him how he was, but he swayed closer to her, either consciously or because his legs could barely hold him up. Whatever the case, she didn’t mind, and encircled his waist with her arms, lending him her strength. She kissed Santi’s sleepy head, his eyes almost closed, and was about to kiss Din too when Cara turned back towards them.

“We’re clearing up, we have what we need. Place is a mess, though,” she noted, observing them but not saying anything.

Din shrugged – he already knew. “Santi’s room’s fine. I’ll figure it out.”

“ _We’ll_ figure it out, I’m gonna stay to help,” Omera said.

“You…”

“I’m _staying_ ,” she repeated, hugging him closer. He still hadn’t moved from the circle of her arms, after all.

Cara nodded, agreeing with her. “I’ll come around tomorrow morning. Well, in a few hours,” she realized checking her watch. “We’ll see if Burg’s interrogation is getting us anywhere, but he’s still being treated for his injuries at the moment.”

She felt Din bristle at that – he wasn’t regretting his acts, far from it. And Omera could clearly see the discoloration around his neck from where she stood. Maybe if she hadn’t been watching his apartment so closely, they wouldn’t have arrived in time. Maybe…

“I’m sure he’ll survive,” he grumbled.

“Yeah, I’m sure he will,” said Cara.

They stayed silent, and Omera directed one last look at her, hoping she was managing to communicate her feelings to her. She needed time with Din. As much as she could give him. They had a lot to deal with and he had to rest.

“I’ll call tomorrow to let you know when I’ll drop by. The surveillance will stay put, but I don’t think there’s gonna be any more action tonight – the place is too hot, especially with the police’s presence now, we’ll deal with them.”

“Yeah,” agreed Din. “We’ll be fine.” Omera liked the sound of that and she pressed closer to him and his son.

Finally, they were able to climb back upstairs. The door of his apartment was wide open and would need fixing, but Din walked straight to Santi’s room and Omera followed, not saying a word. He methodically went through the process of removing his extra clothes, change him, place him in his bed and kiss his forehead one last time. The boy was asleep before his head hit the pillow, reunited with his favorite plush. Din checked that his night lights were still on, and softly pulled the door, not closing it completely on the way out.

He then belatedly acknowledged the state of his living room, and sighed deeply, his breath catching.

“We can deal with this tomorrow,” Omera voiced quietly.

“I need to do something about the door and the window,” he mumbled, displacing broken glass with his feet. “And I don’t want Santi to see all that when he wakes up, he could hurt himself.”

“I’ll get a broom,” offered Omera. “The vacuum cleaner would be more effective but let’s not anger your neighbors even more…”

He harrumphed at that, and grumbled something about calling his super in the morning.

She found a broom, and started sweeping the floor, hoping she was catching all the broken glass. She moved the frames to the side, noting that at least they looked reparable – contrary to his coffee table. Someone had probably landed on it, and she hoped it wasn’t Din. Omera also ignored the marks on the walls. He’d have to redo the plaster coating if he wanted his deposit back.

“Good thing I wanted to move out anyway,” he said, somehow reading her thoughts as he was taping cardboard to the hole in his window.

“What did you throw outside?” she asked, curious.

“A dumbbell,” he replied, having a hard time cutting the tape with his injured hand. “I needed something heavy enough to break the glass.”

“Good thing that you did, or we wouldn’t have noticed anything was wrong.”

“Hope it didn’t land on anyone, but I was running out of ideas after he divested me of my gun,” he mentioned, raising his right hand. Omera winced at the sight and refrained from asking him just yet if his fingers were broken or merely sprained. They still needed to have a discussion about his injuries, but it would have to wait, like everything else. She fully expected to have to drag his ass to the hospital in a few hours for more exams and treatments, if his halted movements and stiff posture were any indications.

“I wonder if they found my gun…” he mumbled to himself, then proceeded to move the couch once he was done with the window.

“Special agents my ass,” he sniggered darkly, finding his weapon, checking it, and replacing it at his waistband. Omera made no comments either.

Next, he armed himself with a screwdriver and tried to fix his broken lock. It took a while, and Omera got rid of most of the glass in the trashcan in the meantime. There again she expected the neighbors – and Santi – wouldn’t be too happy with him if he were to use a power drill at 3AM.

“The wood is warped, but it should hold until I can do something better about it,” he commented, joining her again in the living room and observing her progress.

“Thanks,” Din offered, tired shoulders lowered. “You didn’t have to do all that.”

“It’s fine,” she said, wondering what else she could do.

Din busied himself with a corner she hadn’t started on yet, but a few minutes later she heard a whispered curse. She saw what the problem was at once when she approached – the idiot had tried to pick up glass with his bare hands, but he was shaking badly, his muscles way past their exhaustion point.

“Come here,” she entreated, having a hard time dragging him to the kitchen, his left hand bleeding heavily from a cut. She wasn’t sure if it was fatigue or vexation at his clumsiness that made him so uncooperative. He sighed and grumbled words she couldn’t understand as she was holding his injured hand under the cold spray.

“Where’s your first aid kit?” she asked, stopping herself from berating him.

“Bathroom,” he mumbled, and Omera left to go grab it.

It was the same kit as the one she had used back in July to fix his stab wound, and she tried not to think about that day. But it was hard not to, when he looked and behaved so similarly. Guarded, bone-weary and _fucking stubborn_.

“Let me do that,” she objected when she saw him reach for the bandages himself. Omera pressed gauze to his palm over the still bleeding cut, then wrapped it tightly. She eyed the morphine caps she was also familiar with, and wondered idly if she’d be able to force a couple on him.

“Omera…” he started.

“What?” she griped, not managing to mask the annoyance in her voice and regretting it immediately when she saw the wounded look in his eyes.

“You shouldn’t have to do that, you shouldn’t even be here,” he sighed, and he was apparently starting their one-sided conversation from the bar again. His attempt to push her away. Omera just about managed not to roll her eyes and praise him for his impeccable timing.

“I’m exactly where I need to be,” she countered, closing the kit to keep her hands busy – he was standing too close and in her weary state she wasn’t sure what she would do once she found herself with nothing left to take care of. Strangle him and finish Burg’s job. Kiss him. _Probably both._

“Omera, when this is all over, you should…”

“I should what, Din?” she interrupted him, looking straight into his eyes, unflinching at their dark intensity. “Please, tell me what I should do.”

He opened his mouth, but no words came out. Instead, his gaze lowered to her lips, and Omera knew exactly what _she_ wanted to do. She grabbed his hair, barely mindful of his stitches and kissed him hard. Rising on her tiptoes for better access, it wasn’t long before he followed her example and sighed deeply. Her teeth worried at his full lower lip next and her palms slowly slid down to his neck. He groaned and pulled her against him, but soon it wasn’t enough and he sat her on the counter. As he stood in the v of her legs, she settled her hands on his shoulders and wrapped her legs around his waist. Their kisses turned sloppy and he didn’t hesitate to push against her. The movement propelled her further on the counter and she gripped him harder with all her limbs.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he mumbled against the skin of her neck, and Omera couldn’t help but agree.

The pressure building rapidly inside her was too delicious to ignore for long and she found his lips again, tightening against him and feeling him hardening even more against her core. His bandaged hands slipped under her top, roaming her back, then settled lower in an attempt to bring her impossibly closer to where he wanted her the most. She moaned at the contact and his breath stuttered, his intent becoming clear when he reached for his belt.

 _Yes. God, yes_.

Omera untwisted her legs from his waist quickly and started removing her own pants. He helped her to speed the process along, and the look in his eyes was so emotionally raw that she wondered how long she was going to last. His gaze remained fixed on hers as he filled her with one long powerful stroke. Omera held her breath, adjusting, then wrapped her whole body around him again – arms around his shoulders, legs around his waist, and hands in his hair. She whispered exactly what she wanted him to do to her in his ear and he started moving, a prolonged moan barely muffled against her shoulder.

His pace was uncompromising and Omera could hardly keep up, but it didn’t matter. The feel of his warm flesh against hers was enough to make her feel alive. _Alive, he was alive._ She held onto that thought as he reached deeper into her with each stroke. She stopped herself from making too much noise by pressing her lips to his reddened neck, smelling cold sweat, dried blood and baby soap. Din and Mando wrapped into one person.

Omera was past caring if her ever tightening legs were causing him pain, her release so close she could almost touch it. She ground herself closer to him, panting, keening, and snapped when he managed to hit that one spot. He swallowed her triumphant yell in a fierce kiss, but his rhythm didn’t falter. His arms clenched around her and his shoulders shook, and Omera knew he was having a hard time letting go.

Hands slowly running though his sweaty hair despite his unforgiving tempo, her nerve endings still tingling wonderfully, she breathed encouragements in his ear, and he whimpered in reply. He made to pull out, reaching his peak, and she tightened around him.

“Not the right time,” she exhaled, and he stayed where he was, even if she wasn’t sure he had understood her full meaning. Not the right time for her to conceive yes, but certainly not the right time for them to part.

He collapsed against her afterwards, mumbling apologies, but she didn’t move, appreciating his weight and the stark reality of his cooling skin against hers. His heart beating wildly against her ear and his shoulders quivering against her palms. He was alive, they were both alive, and she wouldn’t let go.


	10. It's both

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Penultimate chapter to the story, and it's a (small) break from the action before the last installment for some hurt/comfort and fluff.  
> Hope you enjoy!

Din slowly opened his eyes.

It was mid-morning, and the bed was empty. He pricked up his ears, holding his breath, but the sounds coming from the kitchen were reassuring – Omera’s familiar voice and a pleased toddler’s coos. He was incapable of moving just yet as each and every one of his muscles reminded him that he’d pushed himself too hard. Way too hard. And that he would be paying the price for a while. Gone were the days when he would wake up almost healed after a fight.

He tested his legs, arms, back, shoulders and then his neck, and noted several problems. Two of his fingers on his right hands throbbed like crazy – they’d been dislocated and the paramedics had set them, but he’d been warned they would hurt for a while and have to stay immobilized. Fat chance of that lasting for long, but at least he knew what to expect, since it had already happened in the past. His neck was more worrying, as he still felt pain when he swallowed and dreaded to see what shade it had now taken, after having been squeezed by Burg’s meaty paws. His scalp felt itchy and tender, but at least it had been sutured and he wouldn’t have to worry about it. He just hoped the scar wouldn’t be too bad – he had enough of those.

No, his true concern was for his back. He’d thankfully managed to stay still during his short night and had been pleasantly surprised to feel Omera’s head resting on his chest when he’d woken up after a couple of hours, to the sound of distant blackbirds and garbage trucks, once his utter exhaustion had passed. He usually rested in two to three hours’ increments, and didn’t always manage to fall back to sleep, but this time he had – heaviness and his lover’s warmth bringing him a seldom found peace. It was the first time he’d woken next to her and they hadn’t gravitated to opposite sides of the mattress during the night.

But now it was a couple more hours later and he needed to go about his day, and he wasn’t sure he would actually physically manage it. Breathing hurt, moving hurt, and getting up was probably going to be torture. Gently, he slid his feet to the side of the mattress, placing them on the floor with some difficulty, then used his arms to get his chest from a horizontal to a vertical position.

“Mother _fucker_ ,” Din exhaled, then forced himself on his feet in the same breath. He was still wearing his T-shirt and boxers from the previous day, which was a good thing, as he would definitely face-plant and not get up again if he attempted to grab something from the floor.

Now that he was finally up, he checked his range of motion slowly, assessing the damage to his back. As he was cursing and groaning and biting his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, he briefly imagined the face of the OSHA physician he was due to see again in a little over a week, when he realized that he had more broken ribs than the last time he examined him. Din decided to laugh about it and it helped the situation. Slightly. Enough to propel him towards the apartment’s other occupants, his gait stiff and ungainly. Clearly, Omera would see right through him.

 _Omera_.

She was standing in his kitchen with her back to him, long hair untied, Santi in her arms, preparing his son’s bottle while wearing a much too big band T-shirt he’d gotten after a security gig and she looked… Well, his breath didn’t catch in his throat because of his ribs this time. And the lump there wasn’t caused by Burg’s almost managing to strangle him. It seemed utterly moronic now to imagine that he had tried to get her to leave him. _Twice_. Especially when the kitchen counter was right there in front of him. Where he’d…

“Dada!” exclaimed Santi, interrupting his thoughts on the matter for the time being.

Din was happy to see that he looked rested enough and apparently untroubled by the memory of last night’s events. And when Omera turned towards him, her eyes brimming with affection, he forgot that he had meant to appear calm and collected and definitely _not_ in so much pain he wanted to crumble at her feet and beg for her help. Again, his son thankfully interrupted him before he could make a fool of himself.

“Big mess, dada,” the boy announced seriously, and for a second he wondered if he was so transparent that even a two-year old could see how worn out and fucked up he was. But he repeated the words, and pointed at his feet, and Din eventually understood what he meant.

“Yeah, I should be wearing shoes, you’re right,” he said, seeing that Omera had wisely put his tiny red sneakers on his feet, for fear he’d step on broken glass. She had also donned her own shoes, and he tried not to let himself be distracted by the sight of her long legs emerging from _his_ T-shirt.

“Why don’t you go shower, I got this,” Omera suggested, gesturing towards Santi’s bottle. “We’ll sit on the couch and watch a cartoon, since your TV was amazingly spared.”

Din nodded, grateful, as he could still feel dried blood and sweat from last night cling to his skin.

“Just be careful with your stitches, don’t get them wet,” she reminded him as he slowly shuffled to the bathroom.

The first hurdle was removing his shirt, but he grumbled his way through it. The second was looking at himself in the mirror.

“Motherfucker,” he repeated, stunned.

He was amazed that Omera hadn’t said anything when she saw him. Did didn’t remember ever looking this bad and he’d looked _plenty bad_ in the past. He tried focusing on the positive first: apart from the dark circles under his eyes, his face had been spared for once. His scalp laceration was thankfully hidden by his thick hair, and his head hadn’t hit any surface too hard (as far as he remembered), so he could at least cross ‘concussion’ out of the list of possible medical issues.

The rest was… Well, the marks around his neck had predictably started to turn a nice shade of green verging on purple in some spots, and he was dismayed to note that he could actually see the imprint of fingers. Din shuddered, and intended to stay under the warm spray, armed with baby soap – his soap too now, because what the hell, if it was fine for the boy it was fine for him – for a _long_ time.

The paramedics had immediately been concerned about internal bleeding the previous night when he’d resolved to mention that his back hurt, and he now understood why. They’d been equipped with a portable ultrasound scanner, but they’d strongly advised him to get a proper CT scan today, to double check his lungs, spleen, liver and kidneys.

The bruises covering his body varied in colors and shapes and they were all painful to the touch. He knew from experience that the one thing he had to be wary of with broken ribs was pneumonia, which could develop if he didn’t manage to take deep enough breaths. Taking deep breaths at the moment was clearly out of the question, given the rest of his injuries, which made him regret not having had his prescription filled when he had the chance the previous week, following his visit to the OSHA physician.

He resolved to use ice packs and maybe, _just maybe_ , grab a couple of morphine caps if it got any worse. Or if Mayfeld decided to turn up, he realized with a groan, finally getting in the shower.

He felt marginally better afterwards, until he remembered he hadn’t brought any clean clothes with him, and had to pad to his bedroom with a towel around his waist. Grumbling his way _back_ into layers, he vowed to have a proper closet in his next apartment, where he wouldn’t have to bend down to get to his underwear. Din then put on sneakers that were thankfully still laced, and hesitated for about half a second before grabbing the gun he had left on his bedside table.

 _Better safe than sorry_.

He rejoined Omera and Santi in the living room, noting that it still needed quite a lot of work to look presentable again, and he just managed not to yelp in pain when his boy all but jumped on his chest after he’d precariously managed to sit on the couch.

“You can go shower if you want,” he told Omera with set teeth. “I assume Cara will be calling or arriving soon.”

“I showered early this morning already,” she replied, and Din frowned. “I’m not surprised you don’t remember, you crashed on your bed and looked like you hadn’t moved an inch when I joined you afterwards.”

“Right,” he nodded, although his memories from this morning were fuzzy to say the least. Up to a certain point, obviously. There were some other things that had happened he wouldn’t forget anytime soon.

“Hope you don’t mind about the T-shirt. Since I didn’t bring any stuff with me…” she added with a knowing smirk, as if she’d known exactly what he had been thinking about just now.

“No,” he quickly replied, moving the boy slightly so that his knees wouldn’t press on a tender spot. “Help yourself to anything. And thanks for getting Santi this morning, I didn’t hear him wake up.”

“He didn’t call out. I woke up, saw that you were still out of it, and found him sitting in his bed. He didn’t seem too put out to see me and not you,” she added, tickling the boy’s side gently and earning herself a giggle. Din had known for a while that the way to his son’s heart was through his stomach. And it wasn’t the first time she was feeding him. So it made sense he liked her.

“Thanks for being nice to Omera,” Din still told him, holding him a bit tighter and trying not to mind the discomfort.

“Omy,” the boy said, and they both startled at the word, choosing not to comment on the fact that it sounded painfully close to another epithet altogether.

“I made some coffee too,” she said in a breath. “It’s still in the kitchen as your coffee table is…”

“Unusable, I know,” he replied, eyeing the sorry pile of destroyed furniture. He’d have to figure out how to get rid of it. And buy a new one. And call his super to have his window and door fixed. _Joy_.

“I didn’t find much breakfast food on the other hand. Apart from Santi’s cereals.”

Din decided not to reveal that the box of Cap’n Crunch was actually first and foremost _his_. And that at almost forty it was his usual go-to food in the morning.

“Sorry, I need to go do some shopping, but there are probably a few bagels somewhere,” he said instead.

“It’s okay, I have food at home,” Omera reasoned, standing up and going to the kitchen. Din tried not to appear too disappointed that she would be leaving soon, but it made sense. Winta would be back in a couple of days and staying with him was dangerous.

“Do you need help packing?” she asked once she was back, handing him a cup of coffee. Din stared at her stupidly before accepting the beverage, Santi absorbed once more by his umpteenth viewing of the first half hour of _Ratatouille_.

“Packing?” he repeated, frowning.

“Well, you’re not going to stay here,” she argued, gesturing to the still-quite-a-bit-wrecked room. “You’re both coming home with me.”

Din refused at first, obviously, but then Cara showed up.

“Of course you are not staying here, you _idiot_.”

And so because he was in pain and didn’t feel like arguing with two stubborn women, he packed his and Santi’s bag. He didn’t even complain when Cara said she would be driving. She announced it would keep her awake, and he tried not to find it worrying. So he sat in the back of his own car, called his super and I.G. to keep him abreast of the situation, then tried to listen to what Cara was saying about Burg.

Quickly though, he realized he had a hard time following. He heard her mention that he’d somehow dislocated his shoulder and broken his collarbone – _cry me a fucking river_ – and that they hadn’t managed to get him to talk much yet, but the journey was proving taxing on his painful back and ribs. He could feel each and every road bump as they drove along, and after a while even watching his son next to him happily babbling and pointing at the different vehicles outside stopped doing the trick. He was tired. He was worried out of his mind about Mayfeld and Ran. Everything _fucking hurt_.

“Here,” said Omera, turning towards him from the front passenger seat.

“What is it?” he asked, accepting the pills. But he knew already.

“Morphine caps from your first-aid kit,” she still supplied. “You’re very pale, get some sleep if you can.”

There again, he didn’t have the strength to argue and took one, placing the other in his pocket, giving her a small smile in thanks. He put the ball cap he’d decided to wear to stop himself from scratching his healing and itchy scalp lower over his eyes, crossed his arms over his tender chest and waited for the morphine to kick in. Hopefully it would be soon.

When he next opened his eyes, the car was parked in front of a somewhat familiar diner, and both Omera and Cara were staring at him from the front seats, identical looks of amusement on their faces.

“What?” he grumbled, still very much under the influence of the morphine.

“Nothing,” replied Cara, grinning. “Just feels like we’re seeing double.”

Din frowned and turned towards Santi, who also seemed to be waking up from a nap and not looking too happy about it.

“Where are we?” he asked, blinking several times and doing his best to keep his eyes open – he _so_ wanted to get back to sleep. The fact that he couldn’t feel anything was heaven.

“The diner next to the drugstore,” told him Omera. And so they were. He’d slept through the whole journey to Raymond.

“I’ll have a bite with you before someone from the surveillance team drives me back to Seattle. And maybe we can talk a bit more,” Cara noted, raising her eyebrows.

“Sorry I fell asleep,” he deadpanned, feeling anything but.

“That’s fine, I plan on doing the same thing on the way back. Just makes me wonder what you’ve been doing last night instead of resting.”

“Oh, I don’t know, this huge guy decided we should redecorate my living room,” he supplied, his sarcasm level higher than usual. Santi grumbled in his seat, still not completely awake yet either, and apparently agreeing with him.

“I wasn’t talking about that,” said Cara, unfazed by his tone. “Omera also slept for most of the journey.”

It was his and Omera’s turn to sport identical expressions and Cara mumbled something about their unwillingness to share with the class.

“Do you have that prescription Cara mentioned?” asked Omera, wisely deciding to change the subject. “The one your work doctor gave you when you broke your first two ribs last week?”

Din made no comment regarding her own sarcastic tone, and told her it was in his bag in the trunk – he knew he was running low on morphine and that tequila wouldn’t be enough to do the trick this time. She offered to go get it filled for him, as she needed to stop by her workplace anyway. He thanked her and handed her his wallet.

“The insurance card is in there somewhere, and there’s cash,” Din promised, and she told them she’d meet them in the diner.

“Tell me why exactly you wanted to break up with her?” Cara asked once she was out of earshot.

“Shut up,” he replied, out of energy and arguments, finally releasing his seatbelt and turning towards Santi to do the same.

“Seriously though,” Cara continued as they were being seated at a booth inside and Din sighed, hoping he’d soon be offered coffee. “What made you think it was a good idea?”

He wondered what Omera had told her exactly, then remembered she’d been at the burger joint with them the previous day, and had witnessed how he’d struggled to find the right words at the time.

“I wasn’t trying to break up with her,” he defended himself, sitting his son next to him. “I just thought the situation wasn’t very fair on her and I wanted her to know she didn’t owe me or Santi anything.”

“Surely simply talking with her should resolve this,” she reasoned, grabbing a menu. “No need to resort to such drastic measures.”

“We did talk in the end,” he offered.

“Yeah, I’m sure you _talked_ alright.”

Din rolled his eyes, but started checking the menu to avoid looking at her or talking about that particular subject any longer. It would be a very late lunch or early dinner, and Santi predictably saw no problem with that. He had managed to wake up properly by the time Omera rejoined them and the waitress took their order. Din was still groggy on the other hand, and didn’t react when she removed the ball cap from his head.

“No need to hide your face in there,” she shrugged.

“Yeah, let us see your pretty face, Din. It’s not covered in bruises for once,” added Cara gamely.

Din raised the collar of his hoodie self-consciously, as he was well aware that the same thing couldn’t be said about his neck.

He managed to get Santi to pick something remotely healthy, and realized he was actually hungry once he started eating. Coffee was also helping, and he felt the morphine-induced wooziness leave him after a while. Unfortunately, it meant that some of his pain was back, but for now he’d be able to focus on what Cara was saying.

She was pleased that her surveillance team would now only have to focus on one place, here, especially with Winta being back on Monday. Once again, Cara thought that having recovered three out of four (five, including Ran) targets in a week was _impressive_. Din reminded her that he’d been the one doing the recovering and he was a bit fed up with it and she just shrugged.

“Not my fault you’re a magnet for trouble,” she said, sipping her own coffee.

“A very _useful_ magnet for your investigation,” Din stressed.

“It would be nice if you didn’t keep on almost breaking them, though. Makes it hard to get anything out of them for a while.”

There was humor in her tone, but it didn’t quite manage to hide her worry. Clearly, the way he’d ‘dealt’ with Burg was of some concern to her. But Din didn’t want to talk about it. Especially with Omera around, as she’d tensed up at the simple mention of the word ‘breaking’.

“I’ll bear that in mind for next time,” he replied, keeping his voice light.

“We’re hopeful that Burg will talk more. He’s not the smartest of the bunch and he might slip.”

“You’re still working on the assumption that Mayfeld is following Ran’s orders and that they are bunking down somewhere around here?”

“Until proven otherwise, yeah. Maybe they’ll realize that the smartest thing for them to do now is to give up on the notion that they can get to you. Given that we have three people in custody already.”

Din shrugged and said nothing. It was a pipe dream as far as he was concerned. They were never going to back down. He didn’t like the fact that Winta would be back in the proverbial line of fire in two days, but he was also smart enough to realize that there was nothing he could do in the meantime. He needed to recuperate, and hope that the _Norteños_ gang members had no idea how fragile he was at the moment. Let them plan something. Let them take their time with it. He’d be waiting.

They were debating who would get the check when Omera let out a very uncharacteristic whispered expletive. They all turned in the direction she was looking, Santi included, and Din frowned.

“Oh, look! Our friendly Sheriff,” Cara cheered mockingly. “The guy we had to convince the reason why Omera was under surveillance was because of her conveniently shady ex-neighbor.”

“You what?” Din startled, as it was the first time he heard about this.

“Yeah, this Pershing guy? He had been on our radar for a while. Low level loan shark, but still. Perfect cover for us.”

“You never mentioned this,” he complained, not caring if Omera started wondering why he would know who Pershing was. The creepy neighbor he’d convinced to back off using less than commendable methods the previous summer.

“You never asked,” Cara replied. “Just be grateful that we found a solution to save your skinny ass.”

“The man is a _douchebag_ ,” Omera said with conviction, and Din remembered that she had already used that term in the past to describe him, when he called her just after her visit from Xi’an. It was so rare to hear her say anything negative about anyone that he got curious what the Sheriff had done to deserve her ire. But he didn’t have to wait long, as he swaggered towards them, beige polystyrene shirt clinging to his buffy chest, hat firmly set on his blonde head, gun ready to be drawn. The scene was only missing the sound of spurs.

“Omera, this is a surprise. I have not had the pleasure of seeing you here in a while.”

Din decided that he disliked him on the spot. He _exuded_ cockiness and that thing he couldn’t really name but that had always made him hate cops. A self-assurance that was bordering on being vile.

“Sheriff,” Omera replied politely.

“And Special Agent Dune as well,” he continued, and Cara nodded. He then looked in Santi and his direction, and Din figured out that he didn’t need to know who he was, especially if he intended to stare at him like that. He felt his hackles rise, and had to remind himself that – current situation notwithstanding – he was a law abiding citizen now. He seemed almost disappointed when Din didn’t say anything, as if he had hoped for an excuse to rile him up. He came close, though. Especially when he saw how his eyes lingered on Omera when he wished them a pleasant day.

“What was _that_?” asked Cara once they were outside, taking the words right out of his mouth – even if he probably wouldn’t have dared asking them. At least not as bluntly, but this was Cara for you, and for once he appreciated her style. “I mean, I remember him being annoying as shit last week, but I wasn’t there when he talked to you.”

Omera huffed and reddened, and Din had the distinct impression that she was more than a little bit uncomfortable – he could certainly empathize, following the whole Xi’an debacle. She stopped in her tracks on the way to their parked car, and composed herself.

“Let’s just say that I, too, have regrets,” she said, proving his theory right.

“That bad, huh?” Cara pushed, and Omera rolled her eyes.

“ _Bad_. I was quite capable of having more fun on my own,” she added, and Din stumbled slightly, Santi, who was walking next to him and holding his hand complaining.

“Coming, Din?” Cara asked knowingly, her choice of words all but innocent, and he quickened his steps, not giving her the satisfaction of answering.

* * *

Cara left in a surveillance car, promising that another would be there soon, and Din hoped she’d indeed manage to get some sleep on the drive back to Seattle. For all her bravado, he could easily recognize the signs of exhaustion. He didn’t want her running on empty, and knew that being excited about new developments in her case wouldn’t be enough after a while. Also, even if she had assured him she preferred working on this rather than on whatever she had abandoned back in Sacramento, him and his bad decisions had led them there in the first place, nothing else.

“You okay?” Omera asked once they’d settled in the living room. It was still too early to put Santi to bed, and he was playing with some of Winta’s old toys on the carpet at their feet.

Truth was, he wanted to have that last morphine capsule currently burning a hole through his pocket quite badly. The pain was back and he was forcing himself to take normal breaths despite his ribs screaming at him. More sleep also sounded good, despite how irresponsible it probably was in the current circumstances – he needed to remain on his guard. But the previous week’s bouts of insomnia were catching up with him. And Omera’s presence wasn’t helping – it was getting more and more difficult to be anything but completely honest with her.

“I’m fine,” he still tried out of habit, leaning against the couch cushions gingerly.

“I’ve had one husband who complained he was dying anytime he had a cold and now I have you – suffering like a martyr and not saying a thing,” Omera sighed, smiling sadly.

It felt strange to be considered in the same sentence as her husband, and Din couldn’t help giving her a warm look in reply, and her cheeks reddened slightly. Strange, but definitely nice.

“Winta?” asked Santi, interrupting their thoughts. He’d been able to say her name for a while, as it was easier to pronounced than Omera’s for instance – this morning’s attempt notwithstanding. Din could see every time he said it how much it meant to the young girl, and to her mom.

“Winta isn’t here but she will be back very soon, darling. She’ll be happy to see you and play with you, I promise,” Omera told him, and the little boy nodded, frowning. Din knew he still had a hard time grasping how time worked. But ‘very soon’ was easier to understand than ‘on Monday’.

He toddled towards him, grasped his legs, and made him understand quite clearly that he wanted some attention and was tired of playing on his own.

“Do you want to read a few stories?” he suggested, and Santi smiled, pleased at the prospect of uninterrupted time with him. And so Din grabbed the books he had packed for him, and Omera went to select a few from Winta’s room and they remained on the couch, his boy warming his chest and making his pain partly disappear.

When it was finally time for bed he followed him upstairs – Santi insisted he could climb the steps without help – and Din had to acknowledge that he did. It struck him again how fast the child was growing and evolving, when all he seemed to be doing was getting older and a tiny bit weaker every day. He sighed, aware that part of it was just the pain talking, and that he’d soon be allowed to lie down for a few hours. Hopefully tomorrow would be better, and the following day even better than that.

The boy went down like a light, clearly still not completely recovered from the previous day’s tumult. But Din was pleased to see how at ease he seemed in Omera’s house – he’d been a lot less cranky today and enjoying the extra space (and attention). Walking back downstairs, he realized he felt the same. The place seemed safer. And it wasn’t because the remote house was easier to protect and defend compared to his apartment building in the middle of a busy neighborhood. It was Omera’s presence that made it so.

She was no longer ensconced in her armchair reading what appeared to be medical textbooks – he was waiting for her to mention them at one point – but visibly waiting for him to come back down, perched on the couch.

“Here,” she said, handing him a pill bottle. “Try a couple of Vicoprofen, they shouldn’t make you as sleepy as the morphine but still relieve your pain.”

He hesitated but eventually complied when it took him almost a minute to find a comfortable position to sit down again.

“And now are you going to let me see how bad your back is or are you going to continue to pretend that you’re fine?”

“The paramedics checked for internal bleeding yesterday,” Din immediately asserted, although he knew he was stalling.

“I’m sure they also said you needed a CT scan today to make sure it didn’t worsen during the night.”

“Is that why you’ve been reading your old textbooks?” he couldn’t help asking, as she’d been worryingly correct in her assumption.

“Yeah, having you as my personal patient 24/7 really clinched it for me,” she deadpanned.

“Glad I can be of service.”

“Din…” she sighed, her patience wearing thin. And she _had_ been patient. And he _knew_ that she only wanted to make sure he was okay. But it was _still_ so difficult for him to let her see him physically weakened.

“I got this at the drugstore as well,” Omera tried again, getting a topical gel from the coffee table – it hadn’t been there when he went upstairs, and he tried not to feel cornered. “Anti-inflammatory. It should help with your bruises. Your neck, too,” she added, eyeing the marks there and making him feel embarrassed again. She hadn’t said anything about them yet. When he knew how obvious they were. Her earnestness finally convinced him that she only wanted to _help_ not _judge_ , and he unzipped his sweater and took it off with his shirt, trying not to grimace and definitely not looking at her afterwards.

“Oh Din…” she exhaled and he finally raised his gaze towards her.

From her tone, he was afraid to read pity in her eyes, something he’d absolutely detested ever since he’d started accumulating scars, but it wasn’t it. She methodically checked his contusions on his front and back, never pressing hard enough to hurt, and he tried figuring out what her look meant as she applied the cool gel, which indeed felt very soothing on his skin. It wasn’t clinical detachment and her touch didn’t attempt to incite arousal or more pain. He finally managed to relax when he realized that the closest feeling he could equate this to was the calmness procured by his son’s physical proximity. Affection. Unconditional love. Instead of scaring him, the understanding brought him peace. He’d fight to protect that feeling. Not only that – he’d _kill_ , he was sure of it.

“I’m really sorry you had to see me like that yesterday,” he said, trying to order his thoughts and getting to what he’d wanted to tell her for a long time.

“If this is you trying to convince me I should abandon you again…” she started, scowling, but he quickly shook his head.

“Not, it’s not that, I promise,” he swore. “You’ve seen me at my worse. You’ve seen what I’m capable of and I’m scared that…that you think this is all I am. Or that I’ve been hiding it until now, or…”

“I know exactly what you are, Din. What you are _to me_ , at least. Seeing you fight yesterday didn’t change that. I know there’s a violence in you, but I’ve known that from the start,” she interrupted him, her tone and touch still soft despite the importance of her words.

Din remained silent, as it seemed there was also a lot she wanted to get off her chest.

“You’ve been trying so hard to convince yourself that you aren’t Mando anymore that you’ve forgotten you’d actually always been him. And always been Din. It’s not two persons, it’s one.”

Din was pretty sure he’d stopped breathing as he listened to her words – she’d just managed to voice it exactly. This feeling he’d been carrying around ever since Gideon revealed he’d killed his and Santi’s parents and his subsequent realization that he needed to destroy him. Even if it meant dying in the process. And he’d thought Mando had drowned that day, and having him resurface this past week had been scary. But now he realized he hadn’t resurfaced, he’d always been there.

“You think… You think even when I was young and doing the gang’s bidding I was still Din?” he asked her, trying to tone down his hopefulness.

“Of course,” she replied immediately, her hands focusing on his right side, which hurt the worse. “Why else would you decide to join the army otherwise?”

“I was just trying to escape,” he reasoned, “I wasn’t feeling sorry for what I did.”

“You had many ways to escape at your disposal, and yet you chose this. Even if you didn’t acknowledge it at the time, I think a big part of you did it in penance.”

Din closed his eyes and let her words wash over him.

“Most people – if not all – have that duality inside them: light and dark, good and bad, whatever you want to call it. It’s not either or. It’s both. All the time. And one isn’t better than the other because we need both to survive – you’re just able to put an actual name on them in your case. Mando and Din. But you need to accept them both. I know I have,” she concluded, finishing her journey with his neck and the bruises there.

He opened his eyes and looked at her, wondering what he could say. Wondering how he could ever repay her for her kindness and acceptance. She kissed his cheek and he guessed maybe he could start there and kissed her lips instead. Recalling their early morning thirst and the feelings of jealousy the Sheriff had evoked in him. He hoped that despite his weakened body he could be enough for her. That she’d still find him worthy. He hoped… But she removed her lips from his and smiled at him, her hands still gentle around his neck.

“Let’s go get some sleep, I think we deserve it,” she said, her eyes warm and inviting.

And yes, that was exactly what he wanted. To hold her in his sleep and wake up next to her tomorrow. And he did. It was two mornings in a row that he found her still in his arms and he wondered what it meant and what had changed. But deep down he knew.

He alternated between painkillers and ice packs the next day, and he was glad to feel slow progress in his healing. Omera helped him bandage his right hand again in a way that would still allow him to use it – as in, allow him to shoot a gun if he needed to, but he didn’t share that detail with her. The ribs would take a while to set, he knew this, but if he could control the inflammation of the surrounding bruises he’d be halfway there, and could at least avoid a trip to the hospital for a chest infection.

Still, despite a good night’s rest, Omera had to come and find him during the afternoon, as he’d fallen asleep with Santi on the guest room bed. He’d meant to read the boy a couple of stories before putting him down in his cot for a nap and then…

“You okay?” she whispered, but he could see she was laughing slightly.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, careful not to wake Santi who could still sleep for a while.

“You could have rested for a bit longer if you wanted, I just wondered where you’d gone,” she told him as they were making their way downstairs.

“No, you’re right, I should be careful not to let it become a habit,” Din replied.

“It’s sweet, and there are worse habits,” Omera reasoned.

“I actually intended to do more than sleeping today.”

“Like what?” she asked, frowning, seeing him put on his hoodie again and switching his gun from its pocket to his waistband.

“Can you stay here with Santi for a little while? I need to go explore a bit,” he settled on telling her, having come to the conclusion that morning that he needed to keep on appearing strong to the outside world, even if Omera could become an exception.

“What are you going to do?” she pressed, worried now, and he gripped her hands gently in his.

“Nothing dangerous, I swear,” and it was true enough. “I’m just gonna walk up to the beach and have a look around. I’ll feel better once I’ve done that.”

“The surveillance teams are still there,” she pointed out. “More of them than before, even.”

“I know, I won’t be long. I promise I’m not doing anything stupid.”

Omera still seemed unsure, but she let him go in the end, and Din sighed in relief. He wouldn’t have left the house if she’d asked him not to, and that realization scared him a bit. But he still had a part to play. If they were being observed – and he had to work on the assumption that it was the case – then he couldn’t stay inside all day. If he’d been feeling better he would have gone for a run, but a brisk walk to the beach would have to do.

He breathed in as deeply as he could and stood up straight, making sure he didn’t appear like it was costing him a great deal physically to pretend he was fine. He’d pulled up his sweater as high as it would go to hide his bruises, and carefully ensured that his gun was more than a little visible at his waistband. _Come get me_ , he thought. _Let’s get this over with_. But he reached the beach and walked back the same way he had come, his eyes lingering on possible hiding spots, and nothing happened. Closing the door behind him again he had to admit that it was for the best – he was shaking badly in pain again. Still, he knew he’d have to keep on following the same routine, day after day. And hope that nothing would happen until he was in better shape.

That evening, after Omera had ‘suggested’ he upped his dosage a bit after she’d seen him fidget on the couch for a while, he almost felt like normal again. And if he closed his yes, he could pretend he was just visiting for a weekend, and not waiting for the sky to fall on his head.

“I’m registering for a physician assistant program in September,” she announced out of the blue, and Din opened his eyes. She had said the words casually, looking at him from her usual seat in the armchair, but he could tell it was the first time she said them out loud and his reaction mattered to her.

“That’s amazing,” he said, without having to force himself. “I’m glad you decided to do that.”

“It’s not going to be easy,” she hedged. “But if I don’t do this now I fear I’ll always regret it.”

“You have everything it takes to be great at it,” Din told her honestly. “And Winta will be very proud of you and support you, I know I will, too.”

“Thank you, it’s really nice to hear you say that. Especially since I haven’t found the courage to tell her yet…”

“Why not?” he asked, puzzled. They seemed so close that he found it strange that she hadn’t been honest with her daughter from the start.

“Because the program is in Seattle,” Omera replied, and Din opened his eyes wider.

“So you’re…”

“Moving, yes,” she completed his sentence. “I’m going to sell the house. That’s why I haven’t talked to her about it yet.”

Din didn’t know what to say. He thought the house meant everything to her. And part of him would definitely be sad to see it go. He’d made nice memories, here. And he couldn’t imagine what it represented for Winta, who’d lived there for as long as she could remember.

“Are you…okay with selling the house? You don’t want to keep it?” he made sure, knowing that it was of course partly a money issue, as she’d need to find a new place in Seattle and pay for her studies, but he didn’t want her to give up on her home for that if he could somehow assist her – she’d refuse, but for the first time in his life, he was in a position to help over such matters.

“It’s been a difficult decision,” she admitted. “But now that I saw how much Pershing’s house sold for, it’s really a no brainer. It’s not as close to the beach, but it’s bigger, and with your help on the roof and with the electricity, I should be able to sell it for even more if I do it right.”

“That’s why you’ve been repainting the kitchen,” Din realized.

“Yes,” she admitted. “Although I wasn’t 100% convinced at the time yet.”

“Just let me know how I can help and I will,” he told her. “If you need to repaint more rooms or fix other stuff or…” But she gave him a long, amused look, and he rolled his eyes. “Yes, not right now, but September is not quite there just yet.”

Omera sighed and looked around the room, her eyes lingering on the bookcases and various knick-knacks.

“At the end of the day, this was my husband’s dream house, it’s never really been mine. I mean yes, I’ve been happy here, and Winta too. But it’s high time for a change. I never expected we would stay here for so long and seeing her enjoy the big city so much when we visited you only cemented that fact in my mind. It will come as a shock to her, but I think it will be beneficial in the long run – she’s such an inquisitive child, and I would hate for her to feel she needs to limit herself in any way because we live in a small town.”

This all made sense to Din and he nodded, seeing that she needed validation, which was easily given. He also finally acknowledged that her and Winta moving to Seattle meant something else, but he didn’t quite know how to broach the subject without speaking out of turn.

“I don’t know what you’re planning or anything, but… I mean I was going to move with Santi anyway, the place is too small and I can afford it, so if you’re looking for…”

“Thank you,” she interrupted him kindly, her smile warm and genuine. “Really, I mean it. But I think Winta and I will need our own place. It’s going to be a big enough change already for the both of us.”

“Of course, you’re right,” he quickly replied, his cheeks reddening. “I understand completely.”

And he did, really. He knew it was for the best. Their relationship was still new and he had no idea what it meant to move in with someone he also shared a bed with. Still, a tiny part of him felt disappointed that the four of them wouldn’t all be living together. It looked like a wonderful prospect in his mind, and he wondered why he found it so hard to let go of the image, when he’d only conjured it a minute ago.

“But it’s going to be nice to have you and Santi closer,” she remarked. And yes, it would definitely be an improvement compared to the two-hour journey required at the moment, and he nodded in agreement, hoping she would come to think his suggestion had been made in jest, when it actually hadn’t. Not now that the image was stuck in his mind.

Din guessed he was being utterly transparent as usual, because Omera stood up and came to sit next to him on the couch. Still trying to appear nonchalant over the whole thing, he let her take his left hand in both of hers, but she gripped it harder than he expected and he was forced to look at her.

“I’m not saying no forever,” she told him and he swallowed hard.

“No?” he made sure.

“No, of course not,” she confirmed, and that was enough for him. It meant he could keep the image he’d conjured in his mind and treasure it until it became a reality one day. Even if that day was years in the future that was fine, he could wait.

* * *

Winta was back the next day but immediately had to go to school, so her and Santi’s reunion had to wait until the afternoon. It was heartwarming to witness, as his little boy immediately requested hugs followed by games. Omera was still at work, and Din intended to keep a close eye on the kids, so he sat with them in the living room and did his best to answer the girl’s usual rapid fire questions. At least it was keeping him awake, and she had a right to know that the situation wasn’t completely safe yet.

“So Cara arrested three of the bad men?” she pressed, building a puzzle with Santi on the carpet.

“Yeah,” he repeated.

“But you got hurt,” she frowned, looking at him. The marks around his neck were slowly fading and he was careful to hide them as best as he could, especially that morning when he went for a walk to the beach before Omera left, but Winta was a perceptive child. She’d seen he had trouble moving around gracefully.

“A little, but I’ll be fine soon,” he settled on saying, not liking having to lie to her if he could help it.

“And there’s still one or two men after you, that’s why the FBI agents are still there and me and mom have to be careful,” she reasoned seriously.

“That’s right.”

The girl nodded and focused on the puzzle once more. It seemed like she didn’t need much reassurance, and accepted things for what they were.

“Did you know that bats always turn left when they leave a cave?” she told him barely a few seconds later, and Din smiled. Omera was right – she was going to _thrive_ in the big city, Seattle better be ready for her.

Din recounted the conversation to Omera that night and she laughed with him. This time, she also let him do more than kiss her, and he was pleased to find out that his back would still allow him to make slow love to her, then hold her fast in his arms until the next morning.

Except later the next morning Winta was calling him as she was walking out the door to catch her school bus – him, not her mother.

“Is that a bullet?” she asked, handing him the small golden cylinder she had apparently found on the doorstep.

“A rifle cartridge,” he corrected automatically, not thinking that she probably didn’t need to know that, but pushing her back inside immediately and closing the door behind them. They were smudging any prints that might have been recoverable from the cartridge, but he didn’t need to find out who had handled it last – he was pretty sure he already knew.

“Din?” Omera appeared with Santi in her arms, looking worried.

“Why is there an ‘M’ engraved on it?” asked Winta pointedly, and for once he really wished she wasn’t such an insightful kid.

“I’m not sure,” he outright lied this time. “But I need to call Paz, and I need to call Cara, in that order.”


	11. Twenty-four and there's so much more

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I decided to split the last chapter in two in the end: I hope you don't mind! I guess I have a hard time letting go and wanted to give the characters more time in order to wrap up the story better.

“Tell me again,” said Cara.

Din sighed. They’d gone through everything three times already and he was getting about as cranky as the little boy in his arms. It was late afternoon, Winta was doing her homework in the living room, Omera was still at work and Cara had arrived from Seattle just as Santi woke up from his nap. He’d been feeding him a snack and he now wanted to go play, but Din held him back – Winta needed to focus and yes, okay, he felt just a bit better talking about what had happened this morning with his comforting – though fidgeting – weight against his chest. The fact that his pointy elbows kept digging into his ribs another welcome distraction at the moment.

“I’m waiting on Paz to call back to confirm, but I’m pretty sure Mayfeld was part of an infantry subordinate unit in Fallujah, which would also make him the one who put a cartridge under my pillow back then. It was him all along.”

“The same cartridge?”

“No, it was a 45mm, a 5.56. The one left on the doorstep is a 67mm, a .300 Win Mag.”

“You know your cartridges…” Cara marveled.

“Yeah, and I know my weapons. And 45mm was the standard we got for our M4 carbines in Iraq, but the cartridge he left outside usually goes in a M24, so excuse me if I’m a bit worried that there’s someone out there armed with a sniper rifle that has an effective firing range of 1,500 meters,” Din added, his voice rising in intensity, up until he remembered that Santi didn’t like to hear him get angry, and he whispered a few calming words in Spanish in his ear.

Cara huffed, as he’d already voiced that argument, several times, and she’d already told him they were canvassing the area, including any high vantage points. She didn’t want to make him any angrier, he knew, but there were still a few uncomfortable questions she needed to ask.

“How come you didn’t recognize him when I showed you his picture?” she wondered.

“It was more than fifteen years ago and we were in full battle gear, how was I supposed to remember one face out of a whole unit? I never knew who took so much offense over me actually doing my job on that day,” he defended himself. But the empty eyes in the picture _had_ rung a bell. He just hadn’t been able to put his finger on it, and now he could only blame himself for how things had turned out.

“And you had never heard his name before either?”

“I was never told names. And names didn’t matter to me, the whole regiment fucked up, which is what I told command, and why I was given an unexpected two weeks leave back home. But not before one of them – I can assume now that it was Mayfeld – left a small present on my bed,” he said, then realized that maybe Santi would indeed be better off in the living room.

“And you reported it?”

“The cartridge left under my pillow with an ‘M’ engraved on it? Of course I did. I expected that kind of behavior between rival gangs in L.A., but not in the army, and I made it quite clear that I didn’t think I would be coming back after my leave.”

“And that’s when you went to work for Ran, when you got back in the US?” Cara recalled.

“Yeah,” he nodded, stroking Santi’s back slowly.

“Pretty weird coincidence that the guy who had it in for you in the army, is now _also_ part of Ran’s gang…” she pointed out, and Din had already made that connection, and he absolutely hated it and what it meant.

“Pretty weird, yeah. Which is why I’m still hoping Paz will say he didn’t find anything about this Mayfeld regarding what happened in Fallujah, and that this is just some other punk who likes to engrave letters on cartridges.”

“The ‘M’ could either stand for ‘Mando’ or ‘Mayfeld’…” Cara voiced, grimacing, since it wasn’t helping his case.

“Can we…can we wait until Paz calls back?” Din eventually asked, after having closed his eyes briefly. “He said he’d try to be quick, and that he should be back in the US soon anyway.”

“Makes you wonder what he means by ‘soon’. Knowing him and the military, it could be anytime between a few hours from now to a few weeks…”

He nodded in agreement, and hoped that it would be the former.

“But sure, let’s take a break,” Cara conceded, and Din stood up slowly. He went to check on Winta in the living room and she assured him she was done with her homework and was fine playing with Santi now.

Din easily relented, seeing how much the kids liked spending time together despite their age gap, and wondered for the umpteenth time how the young girl managed to take everything in her stride. When he’d informed her that morning that the only way she’d go to school would be if one of the FBI surveillance cars drove her there, she’d immediately beamed. And told him as soon as she was home that it had been ‘one of the coolest rides ever’.

Omera had insisted she could drive herself to work, but Din had made sure that a surveillance car would stay near the drug store. He wasn’t taking any chances.

His regular phone buzzed in his pocket just as he was starting to let his mind wander, observing his son copying a few choice grimaces from Winta. He’d called Paz using the sat phone, but this was him replying to his question by text, using a simple word: ‘Yes’.

Din’s stomach plummeted, as part of him had still hoped this crazy situation was just a simple coincidence. But he wasn’t to be so lucky, and Cara echoed his feelings with an expletive that the kids probably heard.

* * *

“What happened in Fallujah?”

It was hours later, and the children were asleep. Cara had stayed, but she’d spent a lot of time coordinating with her boss and her team over the phone. Nothing of interest had been found outside the house and its surroundings and they were now all sat in the kitchen. It was Omera’s turn to ask questions, and Din knew she had a right to know about what was happening. Contrary to Cara, she didn’t care about the cartridge itself: she cared about what it meant that it had been left outside. For _him_. And now that Paz had confirmed in his laconic reply – which was definitely not his usual style – that Mayfeld had been part of the infantry regiment that day in Iraq, 16 years ago, then her question was actually the only one that mattered.

“I don’t know what you remember from the news back then, but bear in mind that what you saw, were the things that made sense. In reality, not much did,” he began with, trying to make her understand something that Cara, who hadn’t been there, had still been able to grasp immediately, as a former Marine. “It was April 2003 and I was still with my Airborne division, the 82nd. We’d been in Iraq for about a year, and before that in Afghanistan for two years, and even before that Kosovo, where I met Paz.”

“April 2003, I was in pre-med,” marveled Omera with a half-smile. “I was in pre-med, and you’d already seen three wars,” she added, unsettled, and Din shrugged. That was just how it was. And yet the soft look in her eyes allowed him to imagine, just for a second, what it would have been like to meet her then. The army Corporal and the pre-med student. But recalling how messed up he was at the time, it was probably a good thing that it hadn’t happened. And that might have meant no Winta or Santi today, which was just impossible to accept.

“We were a small division, part of the XVIII Airborne Corps, but that implied we knew each other pretty well. And as you said, for most of us it wasn’t our first conflict, even if Iraq gave me a new understanding of the word.”

At this, he looked at his right hand, and the small dragon tattooed between his thumb and forefinger – the corps insignia, which he had immortalized the day before he joined the Air Force. The star of Chile on his left hand had been made just before he enlisted, six years prior. In both cases, they represented things that he had been forced to let go. Or, more accurately, things that had been taken from him. Not for the first time, he wondered what it meant that he had never gotten a tattoo for his time in the USAF. Probably something Paz would have a field day with…

“But what I mean to say…” he started again, having lost the plot somehow on his trip down memory lane, “is that we knew how to work together. The trouble was, Fallujah was such a hotspot in 2003 that a lot of units had to be deployed there, which, understandably, didn’t sit well with the population.”

Omera sighed, and he didn’t blame her. He’d been there, and he had his opinions, but she was allowed hers. Maybe one day they could talk about the subject at greater length and she’d realize that they were probably both of the same mind. But today, she only needed to know about what had turned out to be the last bullet he fired as an army Corporal.

“We were stationed inside the city, patrolling during the day, and maintaining curfew at night. Part of the population was restless, and the show of strength was supposed to incite peace rather than terror, but it’s unfortunately sometimes a fine line when you are in full battle gear and carrying carbines,” he continued, remembering how hot it was that evening, and how tense everybody was – you could feel it in the air that something bad was going to happen, and in his mind he had already been right back in South L.A.

“It was the division I was part of, plus a subordinate unit, the 325th Infantry. People had started gathering outside our base despite the curfew, to protest our presence in the city. We tried to disperse the crowd, but it wasn’t working, and everybody was starting to feel a bit edgy. I was 24 but there were 18 or 19 years old, there. Kids, compared to me. That was the first time they had left their country and been in the middle of a conflict. And it was a pretty fucking bad one we didn’t understand _at all_. Command kept hesitating over what strategy to use and because there were different units, no one really knew where the orders were supposed to come from.”

Din took a breath and looked at Cara. He hadn’t given as many details earlier when he’d retold the events to her, and he could see how tense she was despite her own experience. Omera was her usual calming presence, and for this he was immensely grateful. She just wanted to _know_ , she wasn’t judging.

“And then someone started shooting on our side. I don’t know who it was, but soon the whole infantry unit was at it, and I could see my division was itching to copy them because that’s what you’re trained to do when shots start flying. Except it wasn’t coming from the crowd, it was coming from us. The people outside had a few shotguns, yes. Maybe a couple of AKs. But _nothing_ compared to our firepower.”

“Someone just…snapped?” guessed Omera and Din shrugged, because he didn’t like that word. Soldiers didn’t snap.

“It was chaos and no one seemed to be reacting like they should. We were _supposed_ to do crowd control and maintain peace but that requires specific training and restraint. Two things that a lot of us were lacking, including in my division, but at least we’d been told not to shoot. The 325th had either received different orders or just couldn’t hear them anymore. What I did know was that we were killing civilians outside and this wasn’t the army I had joined.”

The realization had been painful – Din could still remember the hopelessness he had felt. All he had been taught, all the discipline, down the drain. He was back on the streets, and he was the only person he could trust. The old reflexes he had tried so hard to curb were coming back to the surface. But he had to _act_. And _fast_.

“So what did you do?” asked Omera, when he remained silent for too long.

“What I thought was right at the time – I fired a shot at the closest infantry Private’s feet. And they all stopped pretty quickly.”

“You fired?” marveled Omera in disbelief.

“At their feet, yes. I wasn’t aiming to hurt or kill, I was just doing something to make them stop,” he stressed. That had been him _reacting_ , not _thinking_ , because the proper thinking in that situation hadn’t been taught to him, not then. And that was the end of the road as far as the army was concerned for him.

The rest of the story was easier to rehash because it had happened very quickly – he’d been discreetly but firmly reprimanded, up until the brass learned how many victims there had been (20 casualties and more than 70 injured, all civilians) and that they would have to do damage control. They knew Din could very well cause them harm if he decided to share his story outside the armed forces, so he was simply given leave. He probably wouldn’t have made any wave, as snitching wasn’t part of his makeup – then, at least – but he’d been comforted to learn that the ‘incident’ had been reported and investigated by Human Rights Watch two months later.

“But what about Mayfeld in all this?” reminded him Omera.

 _Ah yes_ , Mayfeld.

“Paz confirmed to me today that he had been part of the 325th Infantry – the subordinate unit. Maybe he was the very soldier whose feet I shot at, I don’t know, I didn’t recognize him in any case. But the day before I was to go on leave, someone decided to put a cartridge on my bed. The same kind I fired. With an ‘M’ engraved on it, like the one Winta found this morning on the doorstep.”

“And you think this was Mayfeld?”

“It’s too big a coincidence,” he replied. “And when I came back to the US the very people I spent time with were Ran, Xi’an and Qin.”

“And you told them about Mayfeld?” Cara wanted to know, as this was the only aspect they hadn’t really discussed yet.

Din sighed and tried to order his thoughts. His memories from that time were fuzzy to say the least. He’d been impaired by drugs and alcohol, yes. But his primary goal had been to _forget_ about the fucking war and the fucking army.

“I didn’t know his name, so I couldn’t have,” he reminded her. “But did I tell them about what happened in Fallujah that night? It’s very possible. Yeah, I guess I did,” he admitted. “That and the cartridge left under my pillow.”

“So they could just be reproducing the same MO to fuck with you,” Cara pointed out. And yes, they might be. But they weren’t that smart. This was too elaborate. This was someone who was fucking with him, alright. But someone with an angle. Someone who wanted to get back at him for what he had done. It was personal, and he knew deep inside it had to be the same man.

“What are you going to do?” Omera asked, as she had clearly seen in his eyes that he was convinced it was Mayfeld.

Din honestly didn’t know, as the whole weight of their discussion was starting to take a physical toll on him. He hadn’t taken painkillers all day and his back was screaming at him to go lie down, and quick. But determining what role Ran had played in all this would probably keep him from finding any rest. There was no way Mayfeld joining _Norteños_ was a mere coincidence. Had Ran _looked_ for him? Or was it the other way around? Had Mayfeld been the one looking for payback against Din all this time and found a way to do it through the gang? Because he’d been dishonorably discharged and blamed him? Both scenarios were possible and both were currently giving him a headache.

“I don’t know,” he admitted out loud, and she gripped his left hand over the table. Cara sighed, and he could see how tired she was as well. He’d figure it out, he always did. But he wouldn’t have to do it alone.

* * *

Cara left despite the late hour – she intended to interrogate Burg one more time the next morning – and Din didn’t find sleep either. But instead of wandering aimlessly and stare at the dark sky outside through the window, as he would have done back home in Seattle, he stayed in bed. Omera’s soothing presence beside him, her comforting hand carding through his hair up until she finally fell asleep, almost managing to take him with her in the process.

Omera and Winta went about their day come morning as if there was nothing wrong with having the FBI escort them to work or school. Din didn’t know if he should be grateful or enraged. He definitely felt both emotions keenly, and focused on spending time with Santi instead. After all, come Monday he was supposed to be back to flying airplanes, and his son would return to the DHS home for who knew how long again.

“ _Necesitas un corte de pelo_ , _hijo,_ ” he told him absently as they were idling away after lunch – Din wasn’t hungry, hadn’t been for a while now, but Santi was his usual voracious self, which was reassuring.

“No, dada,” replied the boy, trying to wriggle out of his arms. He knew _exactly_ what he was talking about and Din couldn’t help but laugh. His curly hair was getting difficult to manage, as Santi escaped the brush most mornings. It was the care workers who had handled it until now, but they always cut it too short, he felt. Maybe Omera would be able to help, though.

“Omy might do it,” he said out loud, adopting the name his son had been using lately.

“Not Omy,” he grumbled, reaching for a toy car to get away.

“Would you prefer I did it?” he asked, and the boy stopped, clearly thinking over his choice.

“Omy,” he eventually said, and Din sniggered – what a surprise.

Once Winta was back from school and after a quick game of hide and seek to the delight of both kids, he excused himself and made sure the girl was alright staying with his son – of course she was – and went outside. He stood on the porch for long minutes, debating whether what he was about to do was in any was sensible. Probably not, and yet he couldn’t stay inside all day and do _nothing_. He couldn’t ignore that there was a potential unhinged marksman out there, yes. But Cara’s team was regularly canvassing the area. That was just him convincing himself.

As he slowly walked towards the beach on a path that had become familiar over the last few days, gun in evidence at his waistband and shoulders held high despite his pain, he acknowledged that his subconscious at least knew he was behaving rashly – if Omera had been there, she would have stopped him from going. And he’d chosen the very moment she was absent, leaving the children alone. The children he had just spent extra time with on the off chance that… That what? Could he even say it out loud? On the off chance that he was shot? That he was killed? Because he was too proud and too impulsive?

But nothing happened. _Again_.

And when he slowly made his way back to the house, he found Cara waiting for him on the porch, sitting on the steps.

“That was a stupid thing to do,” she said in lieu of greetings and Din shrugged, sitting next to her gingerly with a grunt of pain – he’d forgotten to take painkillers again.

“And yet here you are, out in the open like me, uncaring that someone might have a scope aimed at your head,” he pointed out.

“Well, there was a nice surprise waiting for me last night in my personal mailbox: Mayfeld’s file.”

“Paz sent it?”

“Anonymous email address. But who else would it be?”

“And what did you learn?” Din asked.

“That he was a lousy shot. Definitely didn’t make it as his squad’s designated marksman, although he tried. Several times.”

“He could have learned how to shoot in the last 16 years…” But Cara shrugged, unconvinced.

“You passed, though,” she said. “With flying colors.”

“Paz gave you my file too?” Din grumbled.

“He gave it to me before I was to meet you back in July,” she admitted, and he remembered that she had seemed to know quite a bit about him. He didn’t have it in him to feel angry as he had her to thank for the kid and him still being around today. If what she read somehow convinced her to see him – and he wondered how that was possible – then so be it.

“It didn’t say anything about what happened in Fallujah, though,” Cara added.

“Of course not,” he snorted.

“I saw some pretty weird and scary shit out there when I was serving, but what you told us last night…”

Din held his breath, suddenly aware that her opinion mattered greatly to him.

“I don’t know if I’d been able to pull it off, but I’d certainly wish I had, afterwards. I think you did the right thing.”

He exhaled slowly and looked at her. “Thanks,” he said simply, and she nodded.

“And you were a good shot, so if you say you were aiming for their feet, then I believe you.”

“What do you mean, ‘were’ a good shot?” he inquired mock seriously, glad that their conversation was veering on easier to handle topics.

“I take that back,” Cara conceded. “You did shoot Gideon’s goon on the beach quite effectively.”

They stayed silent for a while, Din enjoying the sound of the children’s laughter behind him. It was so loud that he could hear it through the closed door, and he should have probably investigated to see what was happening, but for now he just wanted to let the treasured noise wash over him.

“Any luck with Burg? Is that why you’re here?” he eventually asked her.

“Yes and no,” she replied, tone weary. “He might have slipped and revealed something regarding Ran’s location, but he could have also played us, we’ll see.”

“I hope you catch him,” he told her honestly, surprising himself. But he knew she had been working hard and he hated seeing her so exhausted.

“Thanks,” she replied, her shoulders drooping slightly.

“I just want all of this to be over,” he admitted.

“Fuck, me too.”

Cara left to check on her team, and Din went to check on the kids – Santi had apparently decided to draw on himself _and_ Winta, but a bubble bath resolved the issue before Omera came home and realized his parenting skills weren’t quite perfected yet. That evening, Cara dropped by again before driving back to Seattle, and she had a gift for him: a holster.

“You don’t want to be a gangster anymore so stop looking like one,” she told him, and he rolled his eyes. Little did he know at the time that she had basically just saved his life.

* * *

The next day was a Thursday, which meant that Omera had the afternoon off, and was to pick up Winta after school. She’d told him that morning while they were enjoying that moment of quiet that was just for the two of them at the start of the day before either of the children woke up that she intended to tell her daughter about them moving to Seattle. Din had forgotten about it up until the duo drove home and Winta uncharacteristically rushed to her bedroom and slammed the door upon her arrival.

“She’ll get over it, it’s a lot to take in,” sighed Omera when he questioned her with his eyes from where he sat in the living room, building a colorful Duplo tower with Santi. He wanted to reach out to her and find the right words, but his phone decided to ring insistently, and when he saw it was Cara, he had no choice but to answer.

“I think we got him,” she told him, excited.

“Who, Mayfeld?” he asked, hopeful.

“No, Ran!” she replied, and Din tried to accept that this was the bigger catch for her – the gang’s boss. But really, he wished it had been Mayfeld. Even if part of him – the Mando part, he could now acknowledge thanks to Omera – knew it wasn’t supposed to be that easy. And that they needed to have their face off, somehow.

“That’s great,” he forced himself to say. “Where are you?”

“Just outside Raymond, we’re going now, just wanted to warn you, I’ll call back later,” she added in a rush before disconnecting, and Din relayed all this to Omera.

“That’s…good, right?” she voiced, seeing the unconvinced look on his face. “Means Mayfeld will probably back down, no?”

And Din shrugged, not wanting to lie to her, because he really didn’t know. If Mayfeld had it in for him, personally, then nothing would make him back down now. Not even his boss being arrested. Santi called out for him next and he forgot about Mayfeld and Ran for a while. Or about Winta coming home angry and Omera probably needing reassurance. Up until she called his name from the top of the stairs. In a tone that he had only heard once before – when Cara had kicked in his apartment’s door and she saw him fighting with Burg. Needless to say, he rushed to her side, Santi in his arms.

“What’s wrong?” he asked her, out of breath. She was standing impossibly still, but her hands were shaking.

“Winta left,” she told him abruptly, her eyes focused just behind him.

“Left?” he repeated, frowning. “Left where?”

“She’s done this before but not… Not for a long time.”

“Done what, where is she?” he pressed, hating the fact that she was out there on her own at a moment like this. Santi complained in his arms, feeling how stressed the two adults were.

“She probably went to the beach, and…” her apparent calm finally snapping. “ _Oh God_ , Din, is that man still out there? Please tell me…”

“It’s gonna be fine, I promise, I’ll go get her,” he said, handing a fussing little boy to her before she had time to say anything. “I promise Omera, I promise…” he added, when she still hadn’t replied but had accepted his son wordlessly. Silent tears were welling up in her eyes, but he didn’t have time to do anything about them or find better words to say. He rushed downstairs, running all the way outside and only remembering that he hadn’t pushed his body this hard for a while, and for good reasons, when he found himself halfway across the woods. His ribs complained with every breath and his mind was filled with images of Omera looking lost and forlorn on the stairs and all this because of him, but he kept on putting one foot in front of the other, his goal set in his mind. The beach. Winta.

When he saw her sitting on a log – alone, miserable, but unharmed – he gave thanks to whoever was still watching over him, and hurried to her side, his pain discarded in his profound relief. He quickly called an appeased Omera to let her know her daughter was safe, and told her he’d try talking to Winta before taking her home.

“Hey,” he called out after he hung up, louder than he had expected, but the young girl still took her time to raise her eyes up to him. She’d been crying, and he realized he had seen her cry only once before. When Santi had been kidnapped outside her home the previous summer.

He had no idea how to comfort an eleven-year old. Two-years old, he was getting the hang of things. But this was unknown territory, and he was terrified of making things worse by saying or doing the wrong thing.

“Can I sit?” he asked, resolving for now to treat her as he would an adult. Something that Winta seemed to appreciate, because she nodded.

“Did mom send you?” she queried, crossing her arms over her chest in a show of defiance, eyes fixed on the ocean in front of her.

“No,” replied Din. “But she’s worried. You know it’s dangerous at the moment to wander out there…”

“I heard Cara call you,” she interrupted him. “And that she was going to arrest that man, Ran. So you’re okay now, right? We’re okay?”

“I’m not sure,” he admitted, realizing that she needed to be included in this discussion, despite the danger and her young age. “There could still be someone after me. Someone who could want to harm you and your mother too.”

“And Santi,” she added, and he nodded.

She sighed and wiped her face with her hands, the movement harsh and probably a bit painful.

“I don’t want anything to happen to him,” Winta said in a smaller voice, and Din moved on the log to sit closer to her.

“I know you don’t,” he replied in a similar tone. “I know how much you care for him.”

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, fresh tears close to the surface, and he hesitated for a second before raising his arm to stroke her back. It seemed that pre-teens were not so different from toddlers after all, because she immediately welcomed his touch and laid her head against his chest.

“It’s okay,” he told her, running soothing circles on her back. She exhaled deeply and let more weight rest against him. Din kept his movements slow and his voice reassuring. “You did nothing wrong, you’re allowed to be upset.”

“Mom told you? About us moving to Seattle?” she asked, keeping her eyes closed.

“And about her starting a physician assistant program, yeah, she told me. I think that’s exciting,” he tried, and Winta raised her shoulders.

“I guess… But I don’t see why we have to move, Seattle is only two hours away. I don’t want to live somewhere else, I love it here.”

“Two hours is still a long journey. She’d have to leave very early and come back late at night,” he reasoned.

“So?”

“So she’d barely see you, and I know she doesn’t want that.”

“I’m a big girl, I can take care of myself,” she insisted, face very serious, and Din managed not to smile – this was too important for her.

“I’m sure you can, but I think she wants you to go on this new adventure with her. And for you both to discover your new life in Seattle together. You liked the city when you came visit, right?”

“Sure…” she admitted.

“And I know big changes seem like a bad idea at first but after a while, trust me, you’re gonna be so proud of yourself for being brave. And uncover so many new things about yourself and about what you like.”

“But why can’t we move in with you? If we’re going to Seattle, why can’t we be with you and Santi? I don’t understand.”

His hand stopped moving over her back for a second, until he quickly caught himself. He had not anticipated that question and wished he had more time to think about his answer.

“You’d want that?” he couldn’t stop himself from asking her: he had never expected her voicing that sentiment.

“Of course, I’d love living with you and Santi. And I know you and mom are like…together now, right? And people who are together move in together, don’t they?”

“Not always,” he told her. “It’s not compulsory.” Winta frowned at him, clearly unconvinced that he was telling the truth.

“And even if we all moved in together, it wouldn’t be like it is now,” he reminded her.

“Why not?”

“Well, I’d be at work, most of the time. Sometimes I’m barely in my apartment when I have a full schedule. And I only have Santi during the weekends, you wouldn’t see him during the week.”

“Couldn’t we live together just during the weekends then?” she asked, and this time he did smile.

“I think we could work something out. If we all live in Seattle it will be easier to see each other for sure. And your mom and I… I think it’s better if we don’t live together for now. It’s still new and…I don’t want to mess it up,” Din admitted, wondering if what he was saying made any sense to her – it probably wasn’t an age appropriate conversation, but the young girl seemed to be taking his words very seriously, like always.

“Why would you mess it up? I think mom’s happy, she _seems_ happy, at least.”

“I’m glad, and I want you and her to be happy. But I’m not…”

 _God_ , it was so difficult. He never had that conversation with her. He wasn’t sure what Omera had told her about him and about his past, and he had always known he’d have to be honest with her, one day. But he enjoyed the way her eyes lit up every time he talked about his job, or about his time in the Air Force. She _loved_ his stories and he knew she admired him, which was such a rare feeling that he hated doing anything that would change how she saw him.

Part of him was trying to convince himself that she was too young, and shouldn’t hear about his mistakes. But deep down he knew he was dragging his feet. He _hated_ the thought of disappointing her. Of her realizing he was not the hero she probably thought he was. And yet they had no chance of going forward if he wasn’t honest with her.

“What?” asked Winta, raising her head from his chest and staring at him straight in the eye, looking so much older than her eleven years it was almost scary.

So Din took in a deep breath, and started talking. About his dad being a prosecutor and the gangs he was investigating. About the man who came to kill his parents but didn’t find him. About being rescued and his life as a kid in the community in Los Angeles. About how scared and sad he’d often felt. About all the friends he had still made and all their carefree adventures in the city. About looking at planes taking off and swimming in the ocean. About learning about drugs, and gangs and guns and a lot of bad things. About being told who had killed his parents. About his wish to avenge them. And about being scared again when it got too much. About enlisting in the army and meeting Paz. About war, and pain, and injustice and a lot of _other_ bad things. About joining the Air Force and learning to become a pilot and finally finding a kind of peace. About having it taken away. About bad choices and bad decisions and shame.

And then about finding Santi. And about protecting him and killing the man who had killed both their parents.

“The man who was here that day last summer to take Santi, he was the one who killed his parents? And your parents too when you were seven?” she asked, eyes still wide. She’d remained completely silent during his long speech – a rarity for her.

“Yes,” he told her.

“And you killed him? When you got hurt and had to stay in the hospital and Cara came to see us the first time?”

“Yes,” he repeated, trying to figure out if she was looking at him any differently now that he had told her the truth about who he really was. Would she start seeing him as a gangster? A killer?

“And you don’t want to be with your gang anymore? Even if they were your friends?”

“No, I don’t want that. And many of them were arrested. What I was doing for them was bad, I shouldn’t have.”

“But they rescued you when your parents died, and they were nice to you.”

“They were. But it was still wrong, what I did. Working for them.”

“Yeah, but…”

And his heart broke because she was still trying to defend him, somehow. And at first he thought it was her not accepting that he hadn’t always been a very nice person, her being in denial. But it wasn’t that.

“You were four years younger than me. I was a _baby_ , four years ago. I mean, not a baby like Santi, but I couldn’t do _anything_ without my mom. And both your mom and your dad died, and then other people took care of you, and were nice to you, and years later they asked you to help them. It wasn’t _wrong_ that you helped them. They were like your family.”

She was _forgiving_ him in her own way, and her words touched something deep inside him that he knew would never be the same again after this. He smiled despite the tears welling up in his eyes, and hugged her close.

“I don’t need them to be my family anymore. I have Santi, and I have you, and I have your mom. I have Paz and Cara. But I’m… I have a lot to learn still, you understand?”

And the girl nodded against him then looked up at him. Din was staggered to see that much like her mother, there was no judgment in her eyes, even now. Just kindness. And he hoped he would be able to teach Santi to be like that growing up.

“So you don’t think I’m a bad person and you’d still want to move in with me and Santi at one point?” he checked.

“Of course! And I think you were really brave when you were a kid.”

“Thanks,” he managed to say over the lump in his throat.

“So when do you think we’d be able to move in with you?” she pressed, and he smiled again, because this was still Winta, and she wanted answers to all her questions.

“Well, that would have to be when I have Santi for good, for a start,” and she seemed to find it reasonable. “And once you and your mom have gotten used to your new life in Seattle. Maybe after she is done with her PA program and starts her new job.”

“But that’s at least three years from now!” she complained, and he shrugged.

“I don’t know, maybe it could be sooner, we’ll see. We can all discuss it together when the time is right, okay?” Din suggested, and she seemed pacified, happy to be included in the decision.

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he realized that Omera was still waiting for them and worrying. He quickly replied to her text to tell her they were on their way, and he stood up from the log with Winta at his side.

They walked back the same way he had come. Which, really, by now Din should have known was a _stupid thing to do_. But he was still reeling from his discussion with Winta and her acceptance of who he was. Who he really, truly was. He wasn’t paying as much attention to his surroundings as he should have, and yet he wasn’t sure he would have seen the trap before it was too late anyway.

His right lower leg froze under him and stopped him short immediately as he stumbled, not understanding at first why his foot wouldn’t move. When he saw it trapped in the spiky, metallic jaws and noticed the blood on his jeans already, he fought the urge to pass out. Not because of the pain, as he’d certainly known worse – and he could thankfully still wiggle his toes – but the _sight_. This was such a barbaric instrument that surely had to be banned by now, and he stupidly wondered why Omera had never warned him there could be bears in the woods and hunters after them.

But that particular person wasn’t hunting bears. And the gun he held against Winta’s back and the word the girl had used to call out for him in her fright made him reconsider his assertion that he had experienced worse pain in the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter should be posted next week, I apologize about the cliff! As always, thank you for reading, kudosing, and commenting. I love you all. :)
> 
> Also, the events described in Fallujah were (very slightly) inspired by reported ones. You can find more information here: https://www.hrw.org/news/2003/06/16/iraq-us-should-investigate-al-falluja


	12. Between the lines of age

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. After seven months and 150k of written words. The end. This has been an emotional journey, so thank you to all the people who have shared it with me. Writing has helped me a lot during this crazy time we are (still) living, and my only hope is that it has helped you a tiny bit too, and made it slightly more bearable.

Din wasn’t sure whether he was actually breathing. But the pounding in his head, echoed in his bleeding leg, reminded him that his heart was still beating at least. For now, in any case. He next focused on Winta, who was standing absolutely still. If it weren’t for her eyes searching his desperately, he would have thought her completely frozen in fear. Clearly, she knew exactly what the man was pointing at her back. And he couldn’t help feeling so very proud of her for not trying to escape, as he was convinced this was the _wrong thing to do_ at the moment. Because now that he could see the eyes of the ex-soldier threatening her, he knew for certain that this nightmare he was currently living and forcing upon his found family was all down to him.

“Mayfeld,” he uttered, his gaze lingering on Winta still, hoping he wasn’t showing any fear – if she could remain brave in this situation, then he had to as well.

“So now you finally acknowledge my name. You certainly didn’t in the past,” the bald man replied, sniggering, looking down at him.

This told Din that the engraved letters on the cartridges had been meant to stand for Mayfeld, not Mando. Which indicated a serious problem with the guy’s ego. Something he’d refrain from mentioning, seeing as he hadn’t dreamed up the M24 sniper rifle the most recent cartridge had been meant for, which was casually slung over his back. Why hadn’t they been shot already?

“I couldn’t believe my luck when I saw you rush after the girl,” the man started what was probably going to be a very long self-congratulatory speech, sneer still very much in place, and making Din wish he could now rush for his throat instead.

“I knew you were gonna walk back the same way, which meant either you or the girl could finally be caught…”

Din fumed silently from his prone position on the forest floor. Yes, he had been _unbelievably_ stupid. And the fact that Winta was paying the price was even more enraging.

“…and if not today then the next one, right? I can be patient. Those dumb FBI agents never checked for me up that tree, and I was quite comfortable,” he explained, pointing up.

So the motherfucker had been right there all this time? Since when? Din wanted to ask him, but he could tell he wasn’t done with his monologue. He kept looking at Winta, and only at her, doing his best to project calmness and reassurance.

“I’m kinda impressed it only took a couple of tries – when I saw you walk the exact same way two days in a row, I decided to tempt fate yesterday, and set up the trap in the middle of the night, then left you a gift on your doorstep, knowing that it would make you come at me even stronger.”

 _Fuck_ , he’d been there at least two days. And had he really been using the same track each time? He probably had, as he’d been focusing on hiding his pain and appear in control when walking to the beach, which had taken a lot out of him already.

“And then today not only does the girl come out, but you as well!” Mayfeld marveled, raising the arm that wasn’t holding his gun theatrically. “And without that stupid gun at your waistband to taunt me.”

Wait, so did he think…

“I had to change my plans with the two of you,” he carried on, unfazed – he’d apparently hadn’t seen the surprise on Din’s face, which was a good thing. A solution might be at hand, but he needed to think, so he let him prattle on.

“…but I’m very happy with how it turned out: instead of having my fun with you from up there, taking my time shooting each and every one one of your sorry limbs while you were trapped, I could have the pleasure of seeing your reaction from even closer, and kill you right in front of your kid instead.”

Winta emitted a pained sob and closed her eyes forcefully, trying to block her tears, and Din attempted once more not to focus on the epithet she had used when Mayfeld grabbed her. They were going to get out of this alive, they had to, he’d make his plan work. And if Omera didn’t kill him for what he was currently putting her daughter through, then they could talk about it. If she wanted to.

“Sure, trapping the girl would have been fun too, but I probably would have needed to stay up my tree, as she would have definitely screamed.”

Winta fidgeted even more at that last mention and he couldn’t blame her. She kept looking at his trapped leg and it was easy to guess that she was imagining her own limb in there. _Just a little longer_ , he wanted to tell her. Just a little longer and he would make his move. But he needed to distract Mayfeld some more, and rehearse the movement in his mind.

“But this is _way_ better. You at my mercy. No one to tell me what to do. No Qin with his crazy plans. No Burg with his stupidity. No Ran with his phony principles. And certainly no Xi’an, who’d be _fawning_ all over you, I’m sure.”

Was that jealousy in his voice? Din almost snorted in disbelief. One more reason why Mayfeld hated him, apparently. Just his luck – he’d _gladly_ let him have Xi’an all too himself.

“What happened on that day? In Fallujah, when your regiment shot at the crowd. Why did you do it?” Din asked, cutting his speech short. He wouldn’t make this last for Winta’s sake, but he wanted to know. It had haunted him all these years and he’d always wondered what he should have done differently.

“Oh, so now you want to know my side?” the bald man asked with a forced laugh, his blue eyes turning even colder. “ _Now_ you’re getting off your high horse? Fucking Airborne Division. You always thought you were so superior. Giving us orders and pushing us around. Just because you’d all been to Afghanistan and wherever.”

Din tried not to show his annoyance at the man’s words: some people were simply not meant for a soldier’s life, and Mayfeld was a prime example. The army hadn’t been the right place for him either, but it had paved the way for his becoming a pilot – he wouldn’t have reached his goal without their guidance and acceptance at a moment in his life when he thought no one would welcome him.

“Those people were not showing us respect. Taunting us all day in the streets, yelling at us, spitting at us, and then at night when they weren’t even supposed to be outside. There was a curfew! What the fuck where they doing? And they shot at us first, they did!”

Din knew there was no point trying to reason with such a man. Telling him the victims that night had been civilians who simply didn’t see the US army as liberators wouldn’t work. Empathy was a foreign concept to him and he’d never see the situation any differently. Violence had been the last thing anyone needed at the time, and he’d regret firing that bullet for the rest of his life. Not because of the outcome, as he certainly didn’t regret putting a stop to things and could only rage at himself for not having reacted sooner. But because of what it represented. His only consolation was that Mayfeld had been kicked out of the army. They’d done one thing right, at least.

Winta was still staring at his leg helplessly, and he tried not to acknowledge the pain that was starting to make itself known with crushing insistence, especially as he kept on gradually, minutely shifting his position on the ground. He needed to keep on distracting the other man so that he wouldn’t realize what he was doing until the last second.

“What happened afterwards? How come you joined Ran’s team?” he asked next, hoping the change of subject wouldn’t throw him off. But Din was reminded of Gideon all over again – the guy also loved the sound of his own voice, and the image stayed in his mind: Moff threatening him with Santi in his arms back in July, Mayfeld doing the same with Winta right now.

 _God_ , Winta. Din wasn’t a religious man, but he prayed to the same entity that had let him find her unharmed on the beach earlier that he would be successful with his plan once again.

“Funny how life works sometimes, right?” he asked rhetorically, not answering his question in the slightest, and looking pleased with his cleverness. “It wasn’t until they showed your picture on TV last summer that me and Ran realized that we both knew you already. Man, how we fucking laughed! And you’d told him your poor sob story from the army and all this time it was _me_! He didn’t have to tell me twice to go out and _find_ you.”

Din swallowed hard, wondering why the betrayal still hurt after all this time. And after everything he’d gone through in the last year. He took in a deep breath, centering his thoughts, rehearsing the movement in his head one last time – Mando was allowed to feel sad about this umpteenth disappointment, but it was Din’s turn to live his life.

“Winta,” he told the girl quietly, looking at her straight in the eye, speaking to her directly for the first time since Mayfeld grabbed her. “No matter what happens, you focus on me, alright? No matter what you hear, you just look at me.”

She was terrified. Tears running freely on her pale cheeks now. Lower lip trembling. And yet she nodded.

“You’re being so brave, it’s all going to be okay, I promise…”

Mayfeld said something, but Din was no longer paying attention to him. His mind was busy planning his next move.

“You focus on me, only on me, okay?” he repeated, and he saw her attempt a small smile and he did the same.

Din then looked at his target once, Mayfeld’s bald head, unholstered the gun he had decided to keep hidden at his side for a change thanks to Cara’s remark, and fired a single shot, all in one breath. Winta stood completely still, and kept on looking at him, as he’d instructed her, never turning towards the man who’d crumbled behind her, killed instantly. Never showing that she had at any point wondered if the gun that had been aimed at her own back would also fire. But it hadn’t, and Din started breathing again. That had been a very real possibility, one he had forced himself to discard from his mind. Otherwise, he would have remained frozen like he had on the beach in front of Gideon. And they would have both been killed.

“It’s okay, it’s over,” he told her when she still wouldn’t move, fresh tears welling up in her brown eyes. “You can come closer, _tesoro_ , I promise you it’s fine now.” And only then did she propel herself forward, crashing into his waiting arms and releasing the sobs she had valiantly managed to hold back until now.

“You called me _tesoro_ , like Santi…” she marveled in a trembling voice, and he almost laughed at the fact that she would focus on that first, when he had barely noticed the slip himself. But he knew now how important names were for her.

“Of course I did,” he replied softly, and she hugged him harder.

“Is he dead?” Winta asked next, and Din opened his eyes, wanting to make sure again – the body hadn’t moved.

“Yes, he is. He can’t hurt you anymore, but don’t turn around, okay?” he replied, and she nodded against his shoulder, her sobs slowly ebbing away.

“I _knew_ you were gonna do something, I just knew it!” Winta breathed, her voice getting stronger, a heavy lump forming in his own throat at her blind faith. He was reassured to learn that she hadn’t realized how dangerous the situation had actually been for her, but he felt completely undeserving of her praise. “I wanted to to be just as brave as you when you were a kid.”

“You were, Winta. You were so brave, and I’m so proud of you,” he blurted out, his own tears joining hers in a rush, the enormity of what he’d just put her through slowly catching up to him.

For that very reason, he paid little mind to his leg – he was too busy hugging the small girl to his chest – but she was the one who eventually reminded him that he needed to take care of it and that they couldn’t stay here indefinitely.

“Oh, your leg, I’m sorry! I’m hurting you!” she apologized, stepping back quickly and wringing her hands in worry at the sight of his trapped and bleeding limb. Din allowed himself a look, only his second since he’d stepped in the bear trap, and once more he had to fight the temptation to pass out from the sight.

He finally remembered that he had a phone, and understood why it hadn’t vibrated in his pocket when he saw the ‘No service’ signal. Surely Omera would have reached out again if not for that. She must be going out of her mind with worry.

This eventually propelled him into action, and he looked at the trap more clinically. It was gruesome, but practical: not meant to amputate a bear leg or harm one too badly, and he was pretty sure his shin bone was still intact, even if the wound was bleeding profusely. He studied the metallic jaws and noticed a piece of bent steel on either side. He tried pressing on them tentatively and they seemed to be releasing the mechanism and work as springs.

“Shit!” he uttered loudly, not managing to stop himself from swearing in time – his movement had restored some circulation in his leg and it was starting to throb like hell. He slowly let go of the springs for now and groaned in pain.

“Are…are you going to lose your leg?” asked Winta in terror, and he quickly shook his head.

“No, don’t worry,” he told her, removing his belt and using it as a tourniquet to prevent more blood loss. “I can still move my toes, I don’t think anything is broken, it just looks really bad.”

Din took in a deep breath once his belt was in place, and steeled himself for the assault of pain he knew would come once he released his leg. He pressed down hard on the springs and once he had enough room, wiggled his foot out of the trap. Teeth drawing blood against his lower lip, he managed not to swear again, but he was shaking all over from the exertion. He hadn’t expected that level of pain and he wondered how he’d manage to walk all the way back.

They succeeded, in the end. Din resting as little of his weight as he could on Winta on one side, and using a makeshift wood cane on the other. He tried to find a signal for his phone but gave up after a while – he only had two hands, and he knew the way. Winta was uncharacteristically quiet, and he hated how winded and miserable he sounded, so he asked her to help him check the forest floor to make sure there were no other traps – he knew there wouldn’t be, but it didn’t hurt to be sure, and the girl took on her role seriously.

Putting any kind of weight on his leg was ridiculously painful, and the way Winta gripped his side sent throbbing jolts to his back, but he wouldn’t have it any other way – they were alive. If not for the black spots dancing across his eyes and hallucinating Paz standing in front of him in full uniform just as they exited the woods, he might have found the journey back almost pleasant. As it were, his body decided that enough was enough, and he promptly passed out, his mentor’s voice echoing in his mind.

When he opened his eyes again, he was still lying on the floor, so he assumed he’d only been out for a little while. But his mind was apparently not done playing a trick on him, because Paz was standing over him, a worried Santi in his arms.

“Dada!” his boy uttered, relieved, and hallucination or not, Din accepted the bundle that was placed against his chest.

“Can you sit up, kid?” the vision asked, and before he had finished nodding his head, strong arms were helping him lean against a tree.

“Fuck, you’re really here…” he realized, and his friend rolled his eyes.

“Did you bash your brains in as well?” the gruff voice he’d thought he’d imagined earlier queried, and he shook his head, realizing too late that the repeated movement had been ill-advised.

“Why are you here?” he managed to ask, his hands running circles against Santi’s back automatically, even if the boy seemed fine just clinging to his neck at the moment.

“I flew straight to Sea-Tac from Travis Air Force Base, I arrived late last night from Mogadishu.”

It didn’t explain the full uniform, but this was Paz – he liked making an entrance.

“Clearly, I should have arrived sooner – you scared the _shit_ out of me when you and Cara started asking about that Mayfeld guy.”

“Well, he’s dead now…” Din informed him, trying and failing to make light of the situation.

“So I gather. God _dammit_ , kid…” he started, then stopped himself with a harsh exhale.

Din looked up towards his friend, and tried to find the words to tell him how glad he was to see him. But his head started spinning again and he wondered if he was still losing too much blood despite his belt tied above the wound. His nausea was quickly discarded though when he spied Omera and Winta standing in the background. He hadn’t realized how close he was from the house before keeling over. _Typical_.

“Help me up,” he pleaded.

“Are you sure this is a good….”

“Help me up!” he repeated, and the other man sighed, but did as he asked, taking most – if not all – of his weight. Din just about managed not to wince at the strength of his grip against his ribs, but Paz saw right through him and grumbled something unintelligible. He focused on Santi’s little arms around his neck and his reassuring babble in his ear as his old friend helped him – carried him, really – towards Omera and her daughter.

Winta was clinging to her mother, but apart from that looked completely unscathed, and even smiled up at him and Santi. Still, Din wondered if the girl had recounted the recent events to her while he was out, and if Omera would let him attempt a pathetic apology before she started yelling at him for the ordeal he had subjected her daughter to. But instead of yelling, she kept one arm around Winta, while the other looped around him and Santi as she pressed a quick kiss to his neck.

“You need to go to the hospital,” she said, frowning, her eyes fixed on Paz, who nodded immediately. Her hand lingered on the spot she had just kissed and Din swallowed hard.

“Omera, I’m sorry…”

“Later,” she interrupted him quickly, her gaze far softer than her harsh words, and he relaxed slightly. “We can do that later, you need to get your leg checked out.”

“I’ll drive,” Paz said. “No reason to wait for an ambulance.”

Din heard Omera tell him how to reach Willapa Harbor hospital and he looked down at Winta.

“Can you look after Santi while I’m over there?” he asked her, and she nodded immediately, pleased at the prospect. He kissed the little boy’s forehead and whispered a few words to him in Spanish – he’d be glad for some downtime with him as well once this was all over – then put him down. He complained at first, but Winta was quick to distract him.

_The kids were okay, it was over._

Omera heard his broken exhale over the realization and seemed to share his profound feeling of relief. She gripped his hand tightly in hers and they exchanged one more look before he slowly made his way towards his car with Paz. _They were going to be okay, too_.

“Yeah, let’s get your car,” his friend agreed. “You’re not bleeding all over my rental.”

Din huffed and handed him the keys – Paz pretended to be surprised that he was letting him drive and the only reason he didn’t roll his eyes was because he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t pass out again. Just as he was about to gingerly sit down in the passenger seat, a dark sedan wildly shot from the track and drifted to a stop in a wide arch in front of them, leaving clouds of dirt behind.

“You called Cara?” Din surmised.

“Yeah,” Paz replied calmly.

“Oh fuck, shit, Jesus Christ…” she muttered, rushing out, hair uncharacteristically in disarray. “ _Fuck_!” she repeated at the sight of his leg. “Are you…”

“Hey, Cara,” Paz smiled, and she only spared him a glance before focusing on Din again and resumed swearing. That only made the Colonel laugh harder.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Din told her, even if it wasn’t technically true.

“We got Ran,” she rushed in to say, her eyes moving everywhere from his face to his leg to Paz to Omera, Winta and Santi on the porch. “But he wouldn’t tell us where Mayfeld was and he seemed so pleased with himself that we assumed he was hiding something and Paz called and said that you and Winta…”

“Mayfeld’s dead,” he told her bluntly. “I broke that one, sorry,” he added, mirroring the words she had used a few days ago when she complained that he kept on _almost_ breaking the people she needed to arrest. She shook her head, dismissing his words.

“Your leg…” she started again, angry at herself.

“Paz is driving me to the hospital, I’ll be okay,” he tried to reassure her, and she sighed deeply.

“Don’t feel so bad, you saved me after all, saved _us_ ,” he continued, then finally sat down in the passenger seat.

“What do you mean?” Cara pressed, preventing him from closing the door.

“I’ll tell you about it later. Just…” Din took in a deep breath, closing his eyes briefly at the memory of Winta’s terror. “No one needs to know that Winta was with me. It was between Mayfeld and I. You don’t need her for your investigation, and she doesn’t need to be interrogated. Alright?”

Cara nodded reluctantly, understanding where he was coming from. She remembered how adamant he had been about not involving Santi in her first investigation either, after all.

Din wondered if he lost consciousness again on the way to the hospital, because Paz had to shake his shoulder once they were parked. It wasn’t a big place, but there were still other people waiting to be seen in the emergency room. His bleeding leg and his mentor’s usual _persuasion_ did help them move up a few spots in the queue, though. His makeshift tourniquet also seemed to _horrify_ a few of the patients and nurses who walked past them, and Paz’s disarming grin didn’t help matters - he cut quite the figure at the best of times, but there was something about seeing a 6’5’’ man in full uniform in a hospital that kind of put people on edge.

“I’m taking a new posting at Travis Air Force Base,” he informed him out of the blue as they were waiting for a surgeon to come down – apparently, his injury was deemed ‘problematic’, whatever the fuck that meant.

“Now? We’re doing this now?” Din asked, teeth set, clearly in pain and tired of people poking him already when it had barely started.

“If not now then when? You’re always on the cusp of dying or something.”

“Don’t exaggerate.”

“I’m not.”

This actually explained why he’d flown from this base rather than Pope Field and the full uniform – Din guessed he’d met prospective superiors while there.

“Are you getting a star out of this?” he asked, referring to the Brigadier General insignia, and Paz winked, confirming his suspicion. This was taking him one step closer to becoming a General. They had laughed about it in the past, but Din knew that with both his father and uncle having retired as Generals, there was _some_ pressure for him doing the same, although he was usually careful to hide it.

“And it will be closer to Bolinas as well,” he added, acknowledging that yes, at least this subject of conversation was making him forget about his pain and the whole Mayfeld ordeal.

“Less than a hundred miles,” Paz confirmed. “Certainly closer to you, too.”

“And Cara,” Din noted, wondering how his friend would react, but he just nodded in assent.

“What made you decide to change? You’d been with the 24th STS for years…” Din pondered, citing the squadron he’d also been part of back in the day.

His old friend shrugged, looking more serious than a minute ago.

“It’s a different game out there, now. Don’t ask me to repeat it, but I think you left at the right time, kid. Especially as a pilot. Drones are taking over and I’m not…I don’t think that’s for me, and I’m pretty sure that wasn’t for you either.”

“I like flying,” Din replied.

“Yeah,” Paz agreed. “With drones, it’s… I mean of course, I’m all for soldiers being safer, but it’s taking part of the decision out of your hands. The difficult decision that always makes you think twice. Are we _really_ going to send men out there?”

“What’s different about your new posting?”

“Well, it’s Air Mobility Command. Much more your kind of thing: transport and tanker aircraft. I definitely won’t see as much action and it even involves some humanitarian missions but…”

“Is that your way of tempting me back?” Din asked, half serious.

“Maybe,” Paz conceded in a similar tone, and he sighed deeply.

“Look,” his old superior continued, turning towards him on the uncomfortable plastic chair that had definitely not been designed with human beings in mind, let alone someone like Paz. “I’m just saying: three years as a reservist and you could get the full retired veteran package.”

“Paz…” Din grumbled, because he’d already played that card with him – several times.

“Might even mean retiring as a Major…”

“Paz!” he repeated, but without animosity. Ranks had never mattered to him. “I told you I’d think about it, I’m fine with what I have at the moment.”

“We have C-5M Super Galaxies…”

That was _low_. The high-wing cargo model was one of the largest aircraft in the world – larger than an A380, even. He’d only flown it twice, and as a flight engineer, never as a pilot. Din groaned and pretended that his leg was hurting again.

The surgeon finally showed up but he requested a scan before he could give his opinion. Din just wanted sutures, a tetanus booster, then be on his way, but it apparently wouldn’t be so simple and he muttered darkly in complaint. The waiting room chair was also _killing_ his back and he wondered if anyone would stop him or look at him strangely if he laid on the floor.

“Do you have a scan that could do his whole body at once?” Paz asked the dumbfounded surgeon. “I think his leg is not the only problem, and it will go _much faster_ than asking him what’s wrong.”

“Paz, for fuck’s sake!” he barked, turning stiffly towards him and unknowingly proving his point.

Almost an hour later, they were finally in an exam room with a doctor about to stitch up his wound – no surgery would be required despite some heavy muscle tearing. He’d had the expected tetanus shot after describing the ‘object’ that had caused his injury – the younger man had definitely blanched at his blunt words detailing how the steel jaws had looked and felt against his skin. The requested scans – two separate ones, despite Paz’s suggestion – had shown no broken bones in his leg, but more broken ribs than he had expected from his fight with Burg five days prior. His OSHA physician was going to throw a _fit_.

“Do you think I’ll be cleared to fly an airplane on Tuesday? Maybe even Monday?” he asked before he could stop himself – it was driving him insane. That and the fact that the anesthetics had barely _touched_ his pain.

“Monday as in next Monday? Four days from now?” the young doctor replied in disbelief.

“Yes,” Din replied in a clipped tone. Why would he be talking about any other Monday?

“I… What kind of plane?” he queried.

“An Airbus A330,” Din supplied unnecessarily, as the man gave him a blank stare. “It’s a medium…”

“…large,” Paz interrupted.

“Okay, a rather _large_ aircraft,” he conceded. “With people in it.”

“Passengers.” Paz again.

“Right, passengers. About 350 or so.”

“Well, I don’t really know…” the doctor admitted, and Din sighed again. This man was _useless_.

“Do you need your right leg to fly it?” he added a few seconds later, bent over his task.

“Well, yeah, to activate the rudder pedals. Particularly during landing,” he said – he was always amazed that people knew so little about piloting. “But surely this should be fine…” Din added, trying to move his toes and just managing to do so.

“Seven of your ribs are also either broken or cracked,” the doctor reminded him, and he shrugged, regretting the movement immediately. Paz guffawed not too discreetly, and the younger man looked in his direction, probably in an effort to request his help. His friend had been allowed to follow him around everywhere in the hospital without being asked a single question. Din found it positively unfair, as he would have appreciated being given the possibility to tell him to fuck off.

“Is he flying for…you?” the doctor asked, eyeing his uniform.

“You mean for the Air Force? _God_ , no. He left. We would _never_ let him pilot in that state.”

The young man seemed slightly relieved at the news and laughed nervously. “Well, that’s good…”

“What do you mean, ‘good’? And why are you laughing?” Paz’s good-naturedness had disappeared in the blink of an eye, and he now stared at the physician threateningly.

“I…I just meant…” the doctor mumbled, but Paz wasn’t done, and Din realized the sutures were going to take a while.

“ _This_ man you’re treating right now is a decorated combat veteran. The best fucking pilot you’ll probably ever meet…”

“Paz…” Din tried to interrupt him with a tired exhale – this was _typical_ Paz. Yelling after the person who was currently holding their ticket out.

“…show some respect!” he grumbled, but he seemed to be done. The young doctor clearly wasn’t so sure, as he still hadn’t started stitching him up again. At this rate, he’d need another dose of anesthetics, which might not be such a bad idea after all.

“Can you get us some coffee maybe?” Din suggested when he saw his friend lean against the wall, arms crossed over his expansive chest. He was probably jet lagged and sleep deprived. And he’d just come back from active duty in combat zone – he truly deserved a break. Still, he wished he would take his anger out of someone other than the person currently treating his injury. Paz grumbled and exited the small exam room. Hopefully, he’d punch the fucking coffee machine or something to calm down.

“Sorry,” Din offered his doctor. “He’s… He gets a bit worked up, sometimes. But he means well.”

 _Usually_.

The young man went back to his task and barely uttered another word as he worked, but that was fine with Din.

He found a sheepish Paz in the waiting room – Din had refused crutches with a huff, but accepted the prescription for morphine and more Vicoprofen. He’d be able to restock his first-aid kit and the other strong pain killer had proven useful this past week. He swallowed a couple with the lukewarm coffee his friend handed him, and once he’d filled in the required endless paperwork, they slowly made their way to the car park, Paz at the ready to catch him should he stumble. But thanks to the Vicoprofen starting to work in his overtaxed system, he barely felt a thing at the moment.

“I was on the phone with Cara, they’re not quite done yet in the woods, but she drove back to Seattle to start working on that boss she arrested,” Paz told him as they drove back to Raymond.

“Ran Malk. I’m glad she caught him,” Din replied truthfully. He knew how much this meant to her, and getting the _Norteños_ boss would go a long way with her superiors, he was sure.

“So does that mean you’re safe again?” he asked and it took him a minute to answer, because he hadn’t allowed himself to think about it in those terms just yet.

“I guess,” he eventually replied. “As safe as I can be, at least.”

“Don’t sound too excited…” Paz remarked, and Din smiled despite himself.

“And are you gonna drop that ridiculous notion that you’re well enough to go back to work on Monday?” Paz added, sparing him a dark look.

“But I have to,” Din reasoned.

“Why?”

“Because they gave me a two-week break, and in four days that time will be over, and they’re expecting me to be ready to work again.”

“That two-week break was a medical leave. Some punk assaulted you. Some other punks have now injured you some more. What, you thought you could just get rid of those assholes and get back in a cockpit like nothing happened?”

But that was exactly what he had thought – those two weeks had been the time he had needed to fix his mistakes and make things right again. Make sure Santi, Omera and Winta were safe again – his own well-being was just an added bonus. Paz didn’t say anything else on the subject because he knew him too well and had guessed what was on his mind.

“I need something stronger than coffee,” he announced out of the blue, screeching to a halt in front of a service station.

Din expected him to walk out with a beer (or worse), but he was merely holding the biggest can of energy drink they sold, which still looked somehow small in his huge hands.

“I hate jet lag,” he grumbled, sitting back down next to him, but he made no move to start the car again, and merely sipped his drink.

The sun had set, and Din imagined Santi, Omera and Winta waiting for him at home.

 _Home_.

He realized that he was actually glad that Paz had stopped the car – he was terrified at the idea of rejoining them, as silly as it sounded. Winta, especially. Had the events finally caught up with her? Was she crying hysterically with late onset shock? Din knew he was behaving like a coward. He should deal with the situation he had created and help as much as he could – if she accepted to speak to him again, that is. But she’d seemed fine when he left. _Worryingly_ fine. Was that normal? Was…

“Are you going to tell me what happened or are we going to stay here all night, kid?” Paz asked, putting a stop to his inner ramblings.

“When did you arrive at Omera’s house?” he wanted to know first.

“About fifteen minutes before you showed up all messed up. I was just about to go find you myself. We couldn’t reach you on your phone, and she and your kid were worried sick.”

Din could picture the scene very well and bit his cheeks, hard – he wanted it to hurt.

“And then you passed out and her daughter started telling us what happened all in a rush – she’s fearless, that one. She wouldn’t leave your side and her mom had to force her back. Your boy was even harder to control and you know the rest, you were barely out for a couple of minutes.”

So Din started telling him haltingly about Mayfeld – from his realization of who he was to the bullet he had put in his head. The bear trap. The man’s taunts. Winta’s courage. Cara’s gifted holster saving both their necks in the end. Everything.

“Let me guess: you’re now worried Omera is going to rescind her invitation and send you packing?”

“Kind of,” he admitted, even if he was more worried about Winta than her mother, if he was being honest.

“She was just as worried about you as her daughter when I arrived. Blaming herself for letting her leave the house. She’s a smart woman with a smart kid, I think you’ll be fine.”

Din wished he could see life in such simple terms like his friend. It would definitely be a relief not to have to worry so much about every little thing. This reminded him of what Omera had told him a few days prior: that he was both Din and Mando, and had always been. Not only that, but that she had accepted it – something he hadn’t been able to do yet himself. He relayed this as well to Paz, who didn’t seem very surprised.

“As I said: she’s a smart woman, and she clearly loves you very much, you lucky son of a bitch.”

Din felt the tip of his ears go red in embarrassment, but he didn’t contradict his friend – those were nice words to hear, even if he wasn’t completely convinced they were true or deserved.

“And what did you say after she told you all that?” he pressed.

“What do you mean, what did I say?”

“Well, you did say _something_ , right?”

And Din tried to remember if he had said anything. But all he could recall was him wondering if he should kiss her and her kind rebuff when he thought she expected more before falling asleep in her arms.

“ _Shit_ , you didn’t say a thing…” Paz realized.

“What was I supposed to say?” Din mumbled in defense.

“Oh, I don’t know, ‘thank you’, maybe? For a start?”

Din sighed and Paz punched his shoulder. Hard, because Paz didn’t punch any differently.

“Hey!” he complained, rubbing the tender spot.

“I know you’re not big on talking, but there’s some stuff you _need_ to say out loud, kid. Omera is a smart woman, yes, but she deserves you to make an effort. And I know there’s this stupidly pointless selflessness in you. But it’s not rocket science – just say what you feel. She can’t go around thinking her words didn’t matter to you when it’s clear that they did. Open up to her a bit, you won’t regret it.”

Din guessed his friend was speaking from experience, and he raised his eyebrows in question.

“I followed your advice and started calling Cara more when I was in Somalia. I didn’t bother to do that before because I didn’t see the point when I was so far away, but now I see that I was wrong – it made all the difference in the world. So follow my own advice, now.”

Din laughed mirthlessly and wondered how he could explain to his old superior that he had no idea what he could offer to someone like Omera, who gave everything freely, never expecting anything in return. He’d been quick to offer to help around the house or with Winta’s homework because those where _material_ things he could easily provide. Same as his half-assed offer for them to move in together. It was _practical_.

“Tell her how you feel, even if it’s just a few words. Even if it’s just ‘thank you’ or ‘sorry’ or ‘I don’t know what to say’. Relationships need that to last. And soon you’re gonna need all the help you can get with that boy of yours and you’ll be doubly glad to have them in your life. Hell, I’m pretty sure she’s gonna be glad you’re there for her own daughter in a few years. You’re very good at scaring people off. Teenage boys are going to be easy prey for you. Or, you know, teenage girls, whatever she prefers.”

He didn’t know if he should be horrified at the prospect of an older, sassier Winta or at the warmth blooming in his chest at the idea that he would still be in her life at that point. That he’d still be allowed to see her grow up and be proud of all her achievements.

The remaining miles were spent in companionable silence. Paz was ready to drop him off and go find a motel for himself or even drive to Seattle to meet up with Cara once she was done dealing with Ran – so probably not for a while – but Omera immediately offered him to stay in the guest room. His huge shoulders actually drooped in relief: his friend was exhausted, and he was finally allowing others to see it.

Din kept glancing at Winta during dinner, but she was her usual boisterous self, asking Paz all kinds of question about the Air Force and his most recent mission. The man was less prone to censor his speech than him, and the girl drunk all his words in relish, Omera pretending to find some of his stories a bit _crass_ for an eleven-year-old, but actually just as captivated, Din could tell.

Santi alternated between his arms and Paz’s, thrilled as well at all the attention he was getting, especially from the huge man he remembered from Christmas and who was very good at making scary voices.

The adults went to bed shortly after the children – Santi’s cot was moved to Winta’s room, to her clear delight. Din was pretty sure his mentor would be snoring away in five minutes flat, but he found himself incapable of closing his eyes, despite how exhausted his body was.

“Is your leg bothering you?” Omera asked him, joining him in bed after her shower.

Din shook his head – he’d taken a couple more pills, letting himself numb the pain more systematically, as he could finally acknowledge it was _over_. And he was _done_.

“Let’s get some rest, we can talk tomorrow if you want – I’m just glad you and Winta are alive, it’s the only thing that matters. Don’t go blaming yourself even more, you need sleep,” she told him, staying seated on the bed, her back against the headboard.

He looked into her eyes, seeing she meant every word: _don’t go blaming yourself even more_. Fat chance of that happening, but he wouldn’t find rest until he said a few things, Paz’s words dominating his every thought.

“Can I ask you something?” he queried, taking her hand in his and staring at their joined fingers over the covers.

“Of course,” she replied, her thumb sliding over his palm.

“What can I offer you? After everything you’ve done for me, what can I…”

“Hey, look at me,” she interrupted him, pulling at his hand. Her tone was harsh again, but her soft eyes full of affection and warmth, and he swallowed hard. “You don’t need to do that. You don’t need to say those words.”

“But I _do_ ,” he insisted, aware that his friend had been right – as usual – in the car. “I should have asked you those things long ago, already. Especially when you said that you accepted me for who I was. I didn’t realize at the time how much that meant to me. I don’t need to pretend that Mando isn’t still part of me when I’m with you.”

“You don’t see it, do you?” she marveled, gripping his hand in both of hers now.

“See what?”

“All that you’ve done for me. All that you’ve done for Winta. Yes, for Winta too,” she insisted when she heard him sputter in disbelief. “You’ve offered us so much already and you can’t even see it. Do you really think I would have had the courage to move on from this place if it wasn’t for you? That I would have dared trying my hand at a medical career again? That Winta would have spent a whole evening asking an Air Force Colonel about his time in Somalia after having had a gun pointed at her back a few hours prior?”

“ _Jesus_ , Omera…” he blurted out, closing his eyes at the sudden onset of emotions, her words reminding him of what _could have_ happened this afternoon.

“You turned your whole life around,” she praised, sliding her hands against his cheeks. “You never gave up, and you’re a great father to a wonderful little boy – you _inspired_ us, Din. You keep on inspiring us. So don’t go around asking what you can offer us, because you’re already doing it.”

Din kept his eyes resolutely closed, but pressed her blindly to his chest, his arms looping around her tightly.

“Thank you,” he said simply, the words still costing him, and she held him just as hard.

* * *

Din woke up to an empty bed the next morning. He was pretty sure he’d had a nightmare at one point during the night. Something about him missing his mark, and the children’s happy voices coming from downstairs dissolved the lump already forming in his throat at the memory. He took his time waking up properly and test his range of motion once he was up. His leg was still giving him trouble any time he put too much weight on it and his ribs complained fiercely at the previous day’s extra exertion. He sighed and took a pill – he’d take it easier for the next few days, and hopefully he’d be cleared on Monday to start working again.

He slowly made his way downstairs, and found everybody in the kitchen already: Paz was making pancakes. Of course he was. He _ordered_ him to sit down and get some coffee while he finished preparing their stacks. The kids had apparently already had their fill, given how sticky Santi’s small hands had been over his cheeks when he greeted him with a kiss.

“Pancake Paz!” his little boy shouted happily.

“He woke up saying that,” Winta announced with a smile. “And he’s right, those are the best pancakes ever. _Sorry mum_ ,” she stage whispered, and Omera pretended to be hurt for a couple of seconds. “Can I please have another one by the way, Paz?”

“Sure,” his friend replied, and the girl beamed. She stood up to help him and Santi requested another sticky hug. Din kept on observing her, trying to see if she was hiding anything.

“She’s fine,” Omera interrupted his thoughts. “She’s not traumatized at all. But you are, I think,” she added more quietly.

Din laughed without humor, but she had a point.

“Did I wake you?” he asked, remembering his nightmare and letting Santi smear more maple syrup on his face. The boy giggled at his own antics, making him smile genuinely for the first time in a while.

“Yeah,” she replied, smiling at Santi as well despite her serious words. “It sounded like a bad one. But it’s fine, you fell back to sleep quickly and I did, too.”

They were soon distracted by Paz’s pancakes and his usual welcome insights.

“Is it normal that I know none of the bands from your T-shirts?” he asked, pointing at his chest, now that Santi had joined Winta to ask her for a piece of her pancake, thinking she’d be more receptive than him. It was a different T-shirt than yesterday, which had admittedly displayed the name of another _relatively_ unknown band who’d performed at the club where he used to work as a bouncer.

“They do post-punk grunge revival, they’re good, I also have their album if you want to listen to it.”

“They do _what_?” Paz repeated, and Din saw Omera hide her grin behind her coffee cup.

“Just because _you’ve_ stopped listening to music released in the last two decades doesn’t mean we all have…” Din grumbled, eating his pancakes and acknowledging that they indeed tasted pretty good. But no way was he going to tell that to his friend, especially since he kept on mocking his choice of clothes.

“At least I go to actual _stores_ to buy my clothes and don’t rely on free merchandizing.”

“You mean there are places that stock your size? You don’t need to have it specially ordered?”

Paz dropped his cutlery loudly and Omera cleared her throat.

The rest of the day was spent more quietly. Omera let her daughter decide if she wanted to go to school, but after checking with Din that he and Santi would spend the weekend there – they would, he confirmed after directing a quick look towards her mother – she said she wanted to go. This, more than anything else, made him realize that Omera had been right: he _was_ the traumatized party, not Winta.

Omera also left for work, and it was just Paz, Santi and him. They all napped in the living room at one point, and his boy requested story after story from his old friend. Gradually, the weight on his chest started to loosen, and he found himself able to focus on stuff unrelated to the _Norteños_ gang. Or his planned but problematic return to work on Monday. So he called I.G. to let him know about the newest developments then bit the bullet and called his landlord, who became _a lot more_ conciliatory when he announced he’d be moving out soon. Turned out, he’d rather pay to have his door and window fixed from his own pocket than have him stay in the building for one more month. Din tried not to take it personally.

“How long do you have him for?” Paz asked him, late afternoon, as he was lying on the floor with Santi surrounded by Duplo blocks.

“Until Monday morning, I need to drop him off before I go see the OSHA physician for work,” he replied, suddenly remembering that sobering fact. Din was convinced the little boy had significantly grown up in the last two weeks. He’d certainly learned new words – not all of them good for him. He could climb stairs unassisted. He’d tried new food and loved it. He called Omera ‘Omy’ and requested hugs from everybody, even Cara – to her utter despair, though she was warming up to him, he was certain of it. It seemed unbelievably cruel to tear him away from this familiarity once more, and Din couldn’t help but wonder if he’d have to relearn everything when he saw him again in the not too distant future, he hoped. Sighing, he placed a quick kiss in his too long hair and inhaled his no-longer-baby-but-still-kind-of-baby smell. That would have to do for now.

Cara couldn’t escape Seattle for a while, but she did confirm that her arresting Ran meant pretty much everything else that had happened would be easily swept under the rug for Din and not jeopardize his already hard won immunity. The plan was for Paz to go home with him on Monday morning, and he’d be able to spend a bit more time with the two of them before he was to report to Travis Air Force Base in a couple of weeks. Din already intended to put his friend to good use and have him help him find a new apartment. Surely sending the soon-to-be Brigadier General on viewings would secure him a better deal. Maybe he’d ask him to keep the uniform.

On Saturday morning he was due a checkup at the hospital and a second round of tetanus booster, just to be on the safe side. Din insisted he could drive himself, and Paz insisted he was being a moron, so he ended up letting him drive so that he would shut up.

A nurse quickly saw to him this time, and Paz behaved, even agreeing with her general assessment that he should be more careful in the future and maybe look where he was stepping. Din grumbled all the way back to the car and was still slightly annoyed when his phone rang and he saw that it was I.G. calling him. Thinking he wanted an update on his legal stand with the FBI, he picked up with a sigh, ready to repeat what Cara had told him the previous day.

But it turned out to be something else entirely.

And once IG was done talking – he barely managed to reply – he only had three words for Paz, who had somehow understood how serious the call was as he had remained uncharacteristically silent.

“Stop the car,” he breathed, the sound just about escaping his lips.

“What?”

“Stop the car!” he repeated, louder, and they screeched to a halt on the side of the road, thankfully deserted.

Din fumbled with his seatbelt then the door handle and wobbled for a few steps outside before he realized that he needed to sit down.

“Are you okay?” pressed Paz, rushing to his side. “What is it?”

Din tried to tell him, but the words were stuck in his throat. He fell to his knees and tried to blame his reaction on his low blood sugar: he hadn’t eaten anything since the previous evening for his blood test this morning. But deep down, he knew it wasn’t that.

“ _Shit_ , what’s wrong?” his friend asked, clearly worried now, his hands resting on his shoulders to prevent him from face planting should he suddenly lose all feeling in his upper body, which wasn’t such a wild assertion, all things considered.

“It was IG,” he told him blankly, “on the phone.”

“Yeah, this I figured out on my own. What did he _say_?”

“About Santi…” Din started again, ears buzzing and heart pounding.

“What?” Paz urged him. “ _Kid_ , what did he say?” he added more softly when he still wouldn’t answer.

Din fought the lump in his throat and raised his eyes to his old superior’s face, reading the concern in his drawn features. One day, he’d also try to tell him how lucky he felt for having him in his life. But he had something else to tell him today. Something just as important.

“The judge signed the papers. I’m his legal guardian. He gets to stay with me from now on,” he eventually managed to articulate haltingly.

And when he was done, he crumbled against his friend, and let his mind go blank. Nothing else mattered anymore. Not his leg, not Mayfeld, not his worry over not being able to work on Monday – his son was his and only his.

* * *

It was the 4th of July again, and Din was spending it in Bolinas with his son and his friends. Paz had invited a lot of people this year for the celebration – family, old and new colleagues, neighbors – and the house was getting a bit crowded, but three days prior it had been just the six of them to celebrate his 40th birthday. Omera had managed to have Cara find out the date from Paz, and despite his usual reticence when it came to surprises, he had liked that one. Jokes regarding his ‘advanced’ age were kept to a minimum and Winta baked him a cake with Santi’s help. Din realized as they blew his candles together that he’d been in his life for only a year. His unremarkable 39th birthday had been spent driving around South Los Angeles following leads that would eventually take him to a ramshackle house in Inglewood, where he was to find a toddler with huge brown eyes holding his arms out to him.

Said toddler was definitely getting bigger, and was currently sat atop Paz’s shoulders, surveying the packed deck from the highest possible vantage point.

“Can I have my son back?” he asked his friend, walking up to him.

“Sure,” the bigger man said, handing him the boy who happily settled in his arms – he was getting heavy, Din noted. There were other children to play with, but they were more Winta’s age – he could see the girl zooming around the place at regular intervals.

“Don’t go too far, the show’s about to start,” he reminded him, and Din nodded. The sky was just starting to darken, and the fireworks spectacle would soon begin. But he wanted some alone time with his boy, first. They’d started a ritual in their new apartment, and with the first stars appearing in the evening sky, now was the moment.

On his way down to the beach he came across Cara and Omera in a lively discussion with Paz’s sister.

“Everything okay?” Omera asked him, aware that big crowds weren’t really his thing, and he reassured her quickly.

“Just going to the beach with Santi for a bit,” he told her, pressing a quick kiss to the crown of her head after she requested one from the little boy, who happily obliged. She smiled at him and rejoined the conversation with the two women.

She had just moved to Seattle with her daughter the previous month. Their apartment was within walking distance from his own and they spent most weekends together, and some evenings too – this was suiting them just fine, and Winta had quickly found her marks in her new neighborhood, as he knew she would.

Din breathed a sigh of relief once they reached the sand, the sound of the party still going strong above them slowly disappearing. He found a spot and sat down, Santi’s back pressed to his chest. The little boy burrowed against him, as the ocean’s proximity brought a chill in the air.

“Jupiter, dada,” he exclaimed, pointing towards the sky. It was the first bright spot to appear each night lately, closely followed by Saturn.

“That’s right, Santiago,” he praised the boy, pleased that he remembered something he’d shown him. Their new apartment was in a high-rise – something the Mando part in him had definitely appreciated, for safety reasons – and had a small balcony from which they could appreciate the night sky. It wasn’t always as clear as here in California, but they’d bundle up each time the weather permitted it and he’d list all the celestial bodies he knew to his son before bed.

“You probably don’t remember, but exactly a year ago today you woke me up during the night and you wouldn’t stop crying.”

“I’m not crying, dada,” grumbled the boy and he smiled – Cara said his son was getting grumpier with age, and Din would sigh in reply and roll his eyes, unknowingly proving her point.

“You’re not crying right now, no, that’s true. But you were then. And the only thing that calmed you was me pointing at the stars to you.”

“And the moon!” Santi said excitedly, turning his head towards the almost full moon. “Can you fly to the moon, dada? I wanna fly to the moon.”

The four of them had flown from Seattle this time. It had been his son’s first flight, and he’d been terrified at the prospect that the boy would be scared and wouldn’t like it, but he’d spent the whole journey glued to the window, asking as many questions as Winta in his limited but growing vocabulary.

“Maybe you’ll fly to the moon one day,” he replied, and the boy nodded, delighted at the thought.

“And to Jupiter, and Saturn…”

“All of them, Santi. All of them. You’ll go anywhere you want to. But not just yet, right?”

“No,” his son agreed, and settled against him, craving his warmth. “Not yet, dada.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this last chapter: I might write some oneshots in the future because I will probably miss Santi and Din too much but in the meantime, they are enjoying a well deserved rest.
> 
> Thank you for your continued love and support! :)


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